Never Like This
by fractured-fairytale06
Summary: With just a few words, life as Tony and Ziva knew it ended. Now they have a choice: stick together and run for it, or die trying. TIVA Semi-AU, set immediately before the effects of Aliyah.
1. Orders

**Author's Note:**

**So, obviously, this story has been a little revamped. It occurred to me that Ziva and Tony had a lot to face in the coming chapters, so I'm gearing up for an entire international saga that will span a few months as well as a few countries. Are you all up for it? It will most likely be getting pretty lengthy, but I can promise in all honesty that there will be plenty of TIVA. ;)**

**So, here it is! I hope you enjoy.**

**Part One: Israel**

**Chapter One**

"**Orders"**

The dry Israeli air should be a comfort, I know. I am home, where my family is and where I have grown up and come to serve my country. It is my country that I am serving now, standing atop this building in the mid-afternoon sun. I have to believe this. Tony is standing a few feet away from me, his unkempt hair moving in the wind. The mouth I have come to know so well is pressed into a grim line, summing our situation up with one dispassionate motion. I can see his anxiety in the way he holds his shoulders, but I can just as easily see the regret.

"You killed him," I say, my voice quiet and cold. It is a tone that I have rarely used with this man; my partner, and my best friend. "You were suspicious, _jealous_, and you killed him for no other reason."

"No."

"In _my home_, Tony," I say emphatically, ignoring the sudden constriction of my chest. "You cannot see what that means to anyone other than yourself, and for that I am deeply sorry."

"Is that why we're here, Zee?" he asks, and the fond use of my nickname is like a slap in the face, "Because you're sorry?"

"No, it is not," I say with all honesty. In truth, I wish it was. I cannot force myself to say the words quite yet, but they are waiting for me to accept them. Sooner rather than later, I know. Tony does not respond but holds his ground exactly the way I knew he would. Tony feels more than most; remorse is something to which he has become very accustomed. It is not remorse, though, that has pulled at the lines around his mouth. It is something far more complicated, and it is something that he and I have always shared.

"Tell me, Ziva," he says softly, his voice drifting back to me on the breeze. I hear the heartbreak in his voice and I brace myself against it, knowing it would be all too easy now to get swept away with him.

"My father… _the director,_" I correct, knowing that my feelings toward Eli David right now are far less than familial, "Has ordered me to finish what Michael started the night you fought in my apartment. To…" God, I cannot say the words. I must say the words. "… Kill you."

I expect his jaw to drop and his eyes to widen. I expect him to start producing excuses and screaming in fear and disbelief, but none of those things happen. He simply shuffles his feet a little wider apart and faces me with hard eyes that are much older than his years. I stand down from nothing and no one, but the sight scares me. Complacency is hardly a trait that Tony embraces, now or ever. I hate that he is so calm and my hands are shaking.

"Say something, Tony," I seethe, "Anything."

"There's nothing left to say, Ziva," he says cryptically, "And even if I did, it wouldn't make any difference."

"You should be angry!" I shout, feeling my self control begin to slip away. "You should feel scared or betrayed! You should _hate _me!"

"Well, I don't. I could never hate you," he replies, and we both know that this has made my assignment harder on me. I am having a hard enough time as it is to do what my father has instructed me to do without Tony accepting the entire situation as fate or some misguided necessity. He believes that he is right, but he also believes that I am doing what I feel I need to do. I do not know which part of that makes this harder for me to accept.

Out of a need to justify myself, I step forward and shove him a little. His shoulder goes back and he winces from his injuries—the ones Michael gave him, I realize with a shudder—but his feet stay exactly in place. I repeat the motion and he gives me the same resigned look.

"Fight back, Tony," I say and it almost sounds like a plea. Almost. "Fight me back."

He shakes his head.

"I can't."

"You have to!" I scream desperately.

"I could never fight you," he says, staring directly into my eyes. He sees all the fear and doubt there; I know he must. He sees it, but he does not use it.

I wish he would.

"Do it!" I say, this time pushing him a little harder. "Hit me!"

"No."

"HIT ME!"

"NO!"

"Ugh!" I groan and this time I shove him for real, his eyes registering the beginnings of surprise as he falls backwards onto the hot pavement. I am on him within a second of him hitting the ground, my knees straddling either side of his torso. Before I am entirely sure what I am doing, my gun is off my hip and in my hand. My fingers move nimbly on the weapon and then the safety is off, the muzzle jammed into his chest. Tony does not move, but when his eyes reach mine he does not seem nearly so calm. For a moment I think I see a question there, in his eyes, perhaps fear or uncertainty… but it could just be my guilt.

"They are my father's orders," I say, unsure of who it is that I am really trying to convince.

"I know you, Ziva," he tells me, "And you don't follow anyone's orders but your own."

"Why are you so calm?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper. "Could you really believe that it would end this way? That mine would be the last face you saw on this earth?"

"I'd always hoped it would be your face I saw before I finally kicked the bucket," he tells me and I close my eyes, "Today, tomorrow, or fifty years from now."

"Do not do this," I beg, the gun quivering in my unsteady hands.

"But if you're asking if I knew that I would die this way, then the answer is no," he says honestly and dares to rest his heavy palm on my knee. The heat from the contact is almost scalding. "I never expected to die at the hands of someone I love."

"Please, Tony," I say but my voice slips into the wind to be carried away. I hear his harsh breathing and my own, and I hear my father's voice berating me for allowing Tony to walk away from Michael's murder entirely unscathed. I feel Michael's arms around me and his alcohol-ridden breath on my cheek, and the way his eyes stared blankly at my carpet while his blood seeped into it. The anger has almost returned, righteous in all its fury and circumstance, but then Tony's face is there.

His goofy smile when he makes fun of Tim, and the way he hugs Abby when she cries. I hear all his dumb movie quotes and ridiculous film trivia. I hear the sound his head makes when Gibbs slaps him, and the way his voice gets just a little happier when he is exaggerating the syllables of my name to annoy me. I remember his touch, and the he held me when we were undercover together all those long years ago. I remember the misery in his eyes when I found him knee-deep in Ducky's liquor, drinking Jenny's death away. _I drank with him_, I recall with a wry smile… we talked of inevitability.

I will the memories away, but they will not go.

I scream, hurt and angry, and push the barrel of my weapon harder into his chest, ignoring his hiss of pain. I almost pull the trigger, but then the barrel is moving itself up and away from Tony. Firing blindly into the sky, I empty the magazine in fourteen angry bursts before throwing the gun a few feet away and rolling off of him. It lands a few feet away, and I wait for Tony to get up and retrieve it. He does not move.

I lie on my back and put my hands over my face, finally giving in to the hot tears that had been steadily building since I arrived in Israel to realize what my father expected of me. I would rather that he had killed me, I realize, because I cannot kill Tony. I had never thought myself capable, and now I realize that it is entirely true.

"I am sorry, Tony," I say through the sobs that are now racking my body. "I am so sorry."


	2. Plans

**Chapter Two**

"**Plans"**

My breathing has just returned to normal when Tony pulls me to my feet. The hand he offers me is as rough as his eyes, and I try not to pay attention to the wince he gives when he pulls me up. The action hurts him as much as it hurts me. He reaches for me, as if to wipe away the tears that still streak down my face, but I move away before I can. I cannot look at him, and I could not stand to be touched by him. I have ruined everything that might have once been between us, our friendship has been destroyed, and there is no going back now.

"You should leave soon; before night falls," I say stoically, turning away from him to look out over the city beneath us. Once upon a time I called it home; now it is just another cage. "When my father finds out that I have disobeyed him, he will send someone else for you."

I turn back to him and focus on a spot just above his left ear, unable to meet his eyes.

"I have a contact that can get you out of the country by the end of the day," I tell him, "And with any luck he can have you back in America in the next few days. You will not be safe there, either," I clear my throat, "Not for long, anyway. My father does not give up as easily as Vance would like to believe."

"I can handle him," he says simply and I shake my head.

"Your bravado will not help you here," I warn. "It will only get you killed."

"I'm not running," he says, shaking his head.

"Then you will die here," I say angrily, pushing a strand of stray hair out of my face. "I did not spare your life only to watch you die at the hands of someone else."

"Gibbs and Vance are talking to your father now," he replies, "They can work something out. I killed Michael in self-defense, not in cold blood."

"I believe you," I say, though the words are difficult. I do believe him, but loyalty is never a one-way street. "But it is doubtful that my father will believe a thing they tell him. They represent you, not Mossad. In his opinion, they do not understand Mossad values."

"So, what's he going to do?" he asks me, his voice bordering on sarcastic. "Just put an unofficial hit out on me? Someone's going to find out and stop him. Even if he does manage to have me killed, it'll ruin relations between Israel and the U.S. Could he really be willing to risk that kind of thing over a grudge?"

"Obviously you do not know my father," I respond and he presses his mouth into a tight line before looking at the dusty stone beneath our feet. "It is unlikely that your death could ever be traced back to him. He is too good for a mistake like that. If it were me, I would stage a car accident. Yours is a so-called muscle car known for its speed—a head-on collision would not seem out of place at all. Damage to your brake line and your steering would be simple enough for an amateur to handle, and my father does not employ amateurs."

His face pales momentarily, and I know that he now understands what he is up against. I would normally attempt to reach out and comfort him, but I have no business consoling the man who, up until just moments ago, I had been attempting to kill. When he speaks, his voice is strained and almost inaudible.

"Tell me what to do."

"Keep your phone on until I reach you, and answer it only for me," I instruct carefully. "You must do this. Do not answer for Gibbs, or anyone else."

He nods his assent and I continue.

"If at all possible, I will get a message to Gibbs and tell him what happened. I will speak to my contact and get everything necessary to smuggle you out of the country at soon as possible. When I have what you need, we will meet and I will hand you over," I say. "If anything feels wrong along the way or you feel like someone is following you, trust your instincts. My father has a farther reach than even I am aware of, and my contacts are not immune to it." I nod my head, convinced of my logic. "Take your gun and plan to use it."

"What about you?" he asks, and I see that he is struggling to take it all in.

"You will not like what I have to tell you," I say slowly and he waits for me to complete the thought. "I will not be able to return to my father and tell him that you escaped without some proof."

"What kind of proof?"

"I need you to hit me," I say and before I have finished the words, Tony shakes his head violently. "I must convince my father that you overpowered me."

"We've been through this already," he says adamantly. "And I told you no."

"Do you want me to die, Tony?" I ask fiercely, finally meeting his eyes in a show of will. He does not say anything, but I can see his answer in his eyes. "Then you will do this. If my father finds out that I have disobeyed him and let you live, my fate will be the same as yours." I step just a little closer, farther into his personal space. "I will be dead, and unable to help you. Is that what you want?"

"No," he says loudly, "But I'm not going to hurt you."

"You are hurting me much more if you do not do this," I say and want to yell until I consider changing tactics. "Please, Tony. You are the only one I can trust."

"I can't," he says, shaking his head. "I can't do it."

"You have to," I reply. "Think of all the times that I have hit you and teased you. Think of the times I invaded your personal life without cause."

"It's not enough Ziva," he says. "Nothing would ever be enough to make me do this. I couldn't hit you to save my life."

"You are not doing it to save your life," I say firmly. "You are doing it to save mine."

"Jesus," he swears, turning away from me and pacing nervously. He runs his fingers across his scalp, and I can only wish that his decision could be as easy as mine. I watch silently as he paces and his brain tries to make a choice. I suppose I should be thankful that it takes him such a long time to contemplate his answer, but we do not have time for his chivalry and indecision. Just when I am about to step up and try to push him even further, he stops and looks over at me. The look in his eyes tells me exactly what decision he has come to, and I do not know if I should be grateful or frightened.

"Where do you want it?" he asks stoically, his voice flat and low.

I steel myself and square my shoulders.

"In the jaw," I say, tapping a finger to the left side of my face. Tony takes his stance just a foot or so in front of me, and we are both breathing harder than we should be. I am almost afraid that he will change his mind and I suddenly say, "Make it cost."

"_Count_, Ziva," he says and I swear I could hear tears in his voice before his knuckles crash against my jaw. For a moment the world whites itself out as my head flies back and my neck cracks painfully. The blow does not take me by surprise, but the strength behind it renders me blind and speechless. I stumble backward and I lose my footing. My head bounces mercilessly off the dusty stone, and I accidentally bite down on my tongue. Groaning a little, I roll over and spit, immediately tasting blood. I hear Tony swearing uncontrollably a few feet away, but the ringing in my ears prevents me from overhearing every word.

I pull myself to my feet and move my head from side to side, cracking my neck. Tony is turned away from me, staring back at the door we came through a few minutes ago. When he looks back at me, his eyes are wet and his face is red. He cannot look me in the eye, and I understand why. I wish very much that I had never been forced to ask him, but we have long ago passed the point of no return.

"Again," I say forcefully, finding my voice stronger than I believed capable.

Tony lets out a harsh bark of laughter before looking up at me, tears streaming openly down his face. I can honestly say that it is one of the only times I have ever seen him cry.

"No," he whispers, "Never again."

"You have to," I reply. "You know this is necessary."

He walks up to me and brings his hand to my face, running his thumb lightly over the bruise that is already beginning to form. I can feel the swelling and the pain, and the look in his eyes tells me that he can feel it just as much.

"I'm only doing this so I can see you again," he tells me on a harsh gasp of breath, "When you're sure it's safe, I want you to promise me that you'll meet me."

"Tony…"

"Please," he says forcefully, "I have to know you're alive."

"Fine," I say, wondering if I'll be able to keep my promise. "You have my word."

With that he pulls me forward and crushes his mouth to mine. My lungs constrict painfully and I taste the tears on his lips as though they were my own. I barely have time to register my surprise as his tongue roughly traces my bottom lip, and then he is gone just as quickly as he came.

His fist catches me again, just along my cheekbone, and sends me stumbling backwards. This time, though, I am able to keep my footing. The dizziness takes a few moments to fade, but then the world stills itself and it feels safe to open my eyes. I flex my jaw and find the bones along it sound, satisfying any concerns I may have had. Tony is watching me as I steady myself, biting his bottom lip almost hard enough to draw blood. I want to wipe away the tears trailing down his face, but we have no time for such sentimental indulgences. I have to save his life, and he cannot imagine that the hardest part is yet to come.

"Stay here for a few minutes after I am gone," I instruct him. "If I am being followed, I do not want to send an early signal that I was unsuccessful. The more time between now and the moment my father finds out, the more chances you have for survival."

"Yeah, okay," he says roughly, nodding his head.

"Goodbye, Tony," I say and I can only hope that these will not be my last words to him. I walk past him, not daring to touch him, and within a few steps I have reached the door that will take me to the stairwell. I do not look back, and then I walk through the door. Following the staircase closely down, I realize that my head is much fuzzier than I had originally thought. Nausea creeps up on me and I force it down, entirely unwilling to accept the possibility that I have a concussion. The idea that my brain is not operating at its top capacity is too dangerous to admit right now, so I ignore it.

I hear the sound of wheels crunching on the dry ground as I reach the door of the abandoned building. For a moment I am afraid that my father's spies have been far more attentive than I suspected, but a familiar voice curses and I hear the loud _snap _of a cell phone being closed. I close my eyes for a moment, bracing myself, and then I walk out into the harsh sunlight. Gibbs is standing just beside the rental car we received this morning, taking inventory of me. I say nothing as he studies me, his eyes focusing on my wounds rather than on my eyes.

"Tell me where he is, Ziva," he says slowly, his right hand drifting steadily toward the gun I know he wears at his hip.

"Did your gut lead you here?" I ask, doing my best to ignore his demand. I know that he will draw his weapon on me soon, but I also know that neither of us knows how to accept that he needs to.

"Something like that," he replies solemnly. "I understand better Hebrew than Deputy Director David gives me credit for."

"I see. Undoubtedly you are here to save Tony, if you have overheard my father's plans for him."

"Where is he?"

"He is safe," I say, "For now."

"What does that mean?" he asks, but I notice that his hand has paused in its journey to his weapon.

"I am smuggling him out of the country tonight," I reply. "Once my father learns of my failure to kill him, he will send someone else. And if that person fails, he will send another." I meet Gibbs' steel blue eyes, and they are decidedly grim. "Tony will never be safe again."

"What about you?" he asks.

"Tony overpowered me, took my gun, and escaped," I explain, my voice steady. "I will remain here, a disappointment to my father. Obviously I will not be returning with you and Director Vance. My life at NCIS is over."

"You're not safe here either, Ziva," he tells me and there is no doubt in my mind that he is right. "We can't just leave you here."

"You do not have a choice," I say adamantly. "If I run, my father will know that I aided in Tony's escape. He will be able to track my movements and he will eventually find out who has helped Tony and torture them until they tell him exactly where Tony is. It is safer for Tony if I stay here and give him time to get back into the U.S."

"What you're talking about can't be pulled off in a couple of hours," he says. "A new identity—a usable one—takes weeks."

"My contacts work quickly," I inform him. "They specialize in getting me what I need and getting it quickly."

"If this works and Tony gets back safe," Gibbs starts, "What are the chances that we'll be seeing you again?"

"Truthfully," I say, the question bittersweet, "Slim to none."

"That's what I thought."

"I will do what I need to in order to survive here as long as I can," I say, trying to ignore the promise I just made to Tony. I am now much more convinced that I will not see him again after tonight, and the realization is the closest I have come to heartbreak in quite some time.

"This decision will ensure that Tony returns to Washington alive," I say harshly, barely managing to keep the tears from my voice. "From there, I suggest that you enlist the help of the Witness Protection Agency. They can provide a much more solid identity and protection than I cannot." I look up and square my shoulders, confident in my decision. "This is all I can do for him now, and I am determined to do it."

Gibbs nods his head, and I almost wonder if he understands why I have to do this.

"What can I do?"

"Get Vance, say your farewells, and go home," I say bluntly. "I will not be able to contact you immediately, but I will as soon as I am able. I will be able to tell you where he is headed, but it is always a gamble when smuggling someone overseas. I am positive he will reach you as soon as he can."

"That it?"

"It is all for now," I reply. "I suggest you go. If someone is watching, I would much rather that we are not seen together."

"It's your show," he says and fixes me with a hard stare. "Take care of yourself, David."

"Is that an order?" I ask, inwardly disgusted that I have received another order.

"No," Gibbs says slowly as he opens his car door. "It's a request."

I nod my head and stare after him as he drives away, the sun and the dust stinging my already tearing eyes.

**A/N: I know this ended up being a really dark chapter, and I have no idea where that came from. I suppose it wouldn't be easy for either of them, but I hope it wasn't too out of character.**


	3. Promises

**Chapter Three**

**"Promises"**

It does not take me long after Gibbs has driven away that I set out on my new mission, tentatively watching from a distance until Tony has left the building. His movements are slow, but his eyes are alert and keep a constant watch over his surroundings. He moves into the shadows within a few moments, and I silently wish him luck as I turn and go my own separate way. I have a lot of work still to do, and I cannot afford to waste any time.

If I want Tony alive tomorrow morning, I must move quickly.

There is a man I have known almost all my life as a Mossad officer, who works for himself rather than for my father. I met him while training in Egypt when I was sixteen, and he has remained trustworthy in every task that I have asked of him since that time. Whether it is skipping me across borders with a new identity or providing intelligence that I could have gotten nowhere else, he is dependable. I know him only as Brody, and I have never asked to know more. He knows me as Ziva, and he now knows much more than I ever intended him to.

It is Brody that I call as I slip in and out of the crowded Tel Aviv streets, blending into every other tired face in the crowd. The cell phone I use is disposable and cannot be traced. I will destroy it as soon as I have made contact, giving him yet another number to use in the meantime. He answers on the second ring, and his voice holds all the apathetic humor it normally does when I hear it.

"Brody," I say calmly, hoping never to give away my anxiety.

"Ah, Ziva," he says, his accent smooth and lilting in a way that does not give away his origins. He could be from almost anywhere in Northern Africa, but he could just as easily be from the Middle East or Europe. Brody is as anonymous and indiscriminate as his singular name suggests, and I have a feeling that he prefers it that way.

"What can I do for you, my darling?" he asks me, his typical charm firmly in place. "Passports? Helicopter? The Hope diamond?"

"Nothing so extravagant," I reply, "But I need to get someone to America. Quickly, and without notice."

"All this time I've thought you were in America, playing federal agent," he says, his gruff laughter drifting over the line. I can almost see the cigarette bobbing from the side of his mouth. "Am I to believe that my Ziva is back in the spy game?"

"I never left, it seems," I say, "A very good friend of mine is in danger. I need to get him out of Israel as soon as possible."

"Description?"

"About six feet and two inches tall. Short brown hair and light eyes," I sound off, careful to keep my description of him simple enough to not attract any unwanted attention. "He is in his mid-thirties."

"Done," he says, "Give me five hours and your friend will be on his way back to Lady Liberty."

"Thank you, Brody," I say honestly. "I will owe you."

"Careful with those," he warns, "I'll collect."

I give him the next number he can reach me at and then I disconnect the call, removing the battery to throw it in one garbage bin and the phone itself in another. Should my father decide to be paying close enough to me, tracing this phone will occupy enough of his time to get Tony out of the country. By the time that the phone has left my hands and settled at the bottom of the bin, my hands have returned to their pockets and I am simply another nameless face in a sea of people.

***

The air clogs in my lungs, and I'm not sure if it's the overbearing Israeli sun or my own devastation that renders me incapable of taking a full breath. I stand still, pathetic and motionless as Ziva walks away. When she's gone through the door I unconsciously crack my knuckles against the side of my leg and the sound shocks me out of my headspace. A strangled cry escapes me and hot tears roll down my face; I'm ashamed of what I've done to her just to save my own skin. My hand aches against my side and the sickening crack of my fist against her jaw echoes in my ears. The nausea I feel rears its ugly head but I force it into submission, unwilling to let myself go here of all places.

I hear the quick approach of wheels on gravel and I walk to the ledge of the building to find Gibbs and Ziva squared off in the parking lot. Gibbs' hand is headed for his gun, but something Ziva says stops him from taking it from his holster. I watch as they talk for a few minutes and finally Gibbs nods his head. Ziva doesn't move as he gets in the car and starts the engine. For a second his eyes drift up and I think he sees me, but then his eyes are on the road as he drives away. I look for only a little while longer after he's gone before walking away from the edge and staring at the door that I know I need to go through. The rest of my life is waiting for me on the other side of it, but I can't seem to make myself take the initiative.

In the end, I wait long enough for Ziva to have gotten away before heading down the stairs. My steps are heavy as I leave the rooftop behind me. I try to push the events there out of my mind, but they're stubborn and won't go. I have a sick feeling in my gut that tells me they won't be going anywhere for a long, long time. That roof is my version of hell. I wish I could forget about it completely, but the rest of the world is too far gone. Now I'm forced to consider my life without Gibbs, Magoo, and Abby. Hell, even Vance had grown on me over the last month or two. As much as I hate to admit it, he wasn't a terrible guy. He wasn't Jenny, but he'd do. I'm going to miss Ducky like crazy, and as long as I'm admitting things I guess I can mention the autopsy gremlin. Creepy kid, yeah, but not bad either.

_And Ziva_, I think solemnly, _Ziva too. _

I may never see her again, and she's risked her life to save mine. There's a whole new level of self-loathing that I'm sinking to, and something tells me that it's not going to go away with a few doubles of vodka on my couch. I'm wondering if it's ever going to go away when I reach the bottom of the dusty stairs and walk out of the deserted building. Surveying my surroundings, I slink around the side of the building and easily out of sight from the rest of the street. I don't know where I'm going or how I'm going to get there without being noticed, but I have to go somewhere. Even at their fastest, Ziva's connections aren't going to be able to get me the hell out of Israel for a few hours.

I'm debating on a hiding place when a dark sedan at the end of the alley catches my eye. My first instinct is to draw my gun, the second is to get the hell out of Dodge, and then the third is to breathe a sigh of relief when I see that it's Gibbs who's waiting for me. He stands up from the car with a solemn look in his eye, and I have enough good sense left in me to know that this one isn't his happy face. His mouth is pressed into a grim line and he's looking at me like he can't decide whether or not to shoot me or hug me. It's his indecision that scares the hell out of me.

"You're really in it now, DiNozzo," he tells me gruffly, with no sign of amusement on his face.

"Yeah," I respond, "Tell me about it."

"I hope it was worth it," he says, "Killing Michael."

"To save my life? To protect her?" I ask and nod my head. "Yeah. It was worth it."

"It had better be," he says ominously, "Because you're going to be paying for it for a long time. Maybe the rest of your life."

Of course I hadn't thought of the long-term… I almost never do.

"Yeah, boss," I say, trying to feign strength, but my voice threatens to break.

I think he sees my weakness, because his eyes soften for the quickest second and he waves me forward. I go grudgingly and Gibbs walks around the front of the car to meet me. His eyes meet mind and then he pulls me into a hug that I have no choice but to return. My broken arm is pressed between us but that particular pain, however excruciating, is the least of my worries. I feel my breath catching again, and I refuse to cry now. Not in front of Gibbs, the man who's been my mentor for almost a decade. More than that, he's been the closest thing to a father I've ever had. He pats me roughly on my back and I will the tears away.

He pulls away and raises his hand, where a small black cell phone rests. If I'm correct in my assumptions, it will be disposable and entirely untraceable. It won't have his number in it, or any other number. He won't know the number himself. Sometime in the near future, maybe days from now, he'll find an unlisted number on his caller ID and know that I've made it back to the States. Until then, the hard truth is that I'm on my own.

"Be safe," he instructs me. "Don't do anything stupid."

I nod, incapable of forming the words. Nothing seems enough, so I watch as he turns and heads back to the car. He'll return to Mossad headquarters, and he'll lie to Vance about where I am. He'll get hell for it, but Gibbs doesn't care about consequences. Eli David will assume that Ziva's done her job—killed me—and that my superiors just haven't figured it out yet. All will be calm in the world, but only until they realize that I'm still alive.

"Boss!" I call out suddenly, before he can get into the car. He stares back and I say, "Take care of her for me."

Neither of us questions who I'm talking about. He nods his head in the typical Gibbs fashion, seemingly emotionless, but I have every assurance I need to be able to walk away. I watch as he starts the car and puts it into reverse, disappearing from view. Within a few minutes he's gone from the alleyway and I'm on the move yet again, slinking into the shadows for a little while longer. I leave my jacket and sling behind, knowing that the men Eli David has following me will be looking for an injured federal agent. I roll my shirt up to my elbows and hope that it's enough of a disguise for now. Tonight, when Ziva turns me over to whoever it is that's helping her, I'll have a far more reliable alias. It's too dangerous to be seen in public right now, but I don't really have a choice. Nightfall is still a few hours away, and I can't hide in this alley forever.

That thought in mind, I slip into the busy streets and pray like hell that I don't die before Ziva can save me.


	4. Goodbyes

**Author's Note:**

**Hello all! Obviously it's been a while since I've updated this particular story, but I finished my other big project so this one has my complete attention! At first I thought it might be just a couple of drabbles, but it's turning into a much bigger thing. I'm thinking international saga now, as per Tony and Ziva's orders. Any complaints? There will be more than enough TIVA to go around, let me assure you. ;) I can't pass up an opportunity like this one.**

**So, if you're all still interested, here it is!**

**Chapter Four**

"**Goodbyes"**

"How much?" I ask, shocked. Surely Brody must be joking.

"One hundred and fifty thousand," he repeats. "American cash."

"You cannot be serious," I whisper savagely, doing my best to hide my conversation from the people moving on either side of me. "I cannot come up with those kinds of funds on such short notice."

"Try."

"Brody!" I exclaim desperately, "We are discussing a man's life. There must be something else I can… _accomplish _in return. It will—what is the word—'tide' you over until I can produce the remainder of the money."

"Like what?" he asks, and it is not difficult to find the curiosity in his voice.

"A man like you is never short of enemies," I point out candidly, secretly amazed that I am offering this kind of service. "Surely you could do with one or two less in exchange for my friend's life."

"Oh, no," he says, laughing. "Do not tell me you're becoming an assassin for hire!" His laughter slows and comes to a stop before his voice gets low. "This man means something to you, doesn't he?"

I sigh, and my answer is simultaneously simple and the most complex thing I have ever experienced.

"Yes."

"Then I'll tell you what, Ziva," he starts and I hold my breath in anticipation, "If you can get me seventy-five thousand of it beforehand, I will let you repay the other half once your friend has arrived in the U.S. Because you are my friend, I will do this for you."

"Brody," I exclaim, thankful beyond any of my wildest dreams. "I cannot tell you what this means to me." I clear my throat, suppressing my urges to gush at him. "I can have it for you by tonight."

"We have a deal, then," he says. "I'm sure you know where to meet?" He laughs. "After so much time shared between us, it would be hard not to."

"I remember," I reply, "Perfectly."

"Until nightfall then, Ziva darling," he says and I hear the phone disconnect.

-----

I wander around Tel Aviv for a little while, occasionally ducking through an alley or into a crowd of people in the hopes that I'm just another nameless face to anyone who might be paying attention. I keep an eye out for anyone I recognize, but I don't hold much stock in my ability to spot a potential Mossad-trained assassin. It was pure luck that I'd made it out of Ziva's apartment alive, and this is one piece of luck that I'm not feeling too willing to push.

The sun is starting to go down as I reach the end of my road. Literally. The road dead ends at a small temple that's seen its fair share of death and destruction. I don't feel qualified to venture a guess at its age, but I know that it's older than me and younger than Moses. Something about it draws me in, though, and I find myself donning a yamaka and walking inside.

No one is inside, strangely enough. I suppose I should be grateful, but an empty church in such a devout nation seems out of place. I find a seat near the front of the temple and sit down, listening to the aged wood creak in protest of my weight. It's almost impossible to keep my mind from wandering, no matter how hard I intend to try. Too much has happened in too little time, and it's going to take more than I have available to keep the demons at bay this time around. They're always just around the corner, waiting to jump out and grab me by the throat.

For some reason, I'm not sure how it happens, but I almost start to pray. Something about being in an old temple in Israel has its affect on me, and I'm leaning my head down to ask for strength—which I haven't done in years, since Catholicism had been beaten into me with the worn end of a ruler—but the moment never comes. My thoughts are interrupted by my phone vibrating against my hip. I jump, startled, and then curse my own paranoia. But then again, is it really paranoia if there really are Israeli super-assassins out to get you?

I digress.

"Yeah," I reply, whispering despite the fact that no one else is here.

"Where are you?" Ziva asks.

"With God."

"More specifically?"

"Small temple on the south edge of the city," I reply, surveying my surroundings. "White-washed steps, and a small herb garden around the side of the building."

"I know the one you mean," she says, her voice devoid of any emotion at all. "I will stop in front of the temple in ten minutes. Be prepared to leave." She pauses. "Do not make me come looking for you."

"Copy that," I say dryly, and then our connection is severed. I cradle the phone in my hands, and my internal countdown starts.

In ten minutes I'll leave this temple. In a few hours, I'll leave this country. In a few days, I'll either be dead or back in the States. Either way, nothing is ever going to be the same for me again. It's an idea that I've contemplated numerous times over the last few hours, and I just can't seem to shake it out of my head. It's got me in a choke hold, and I'm powerless against it. I lean my head against the rickety bench in front of me, giving myself the temporary indulgence of wishing it was all over.

It feels like seconds that I had my eyes closed, but a voice starts invading my thoughts and my brain burns rubber trying to figure out what's going on. It takes a minute, but I realize that the voice is calling my name. I feel a warm hand on my shoulder and I flinch away from it, before looking up to find Ziva's intense stare. The expression she wears is something that can only be described as heart-stopping worry, which worries me in turn. As soon as I meet her eyes she exhales loudly and sets her mouth in a grim line.

"Your head was down," she said. "I thought you…"

She doesn't finish the sentence. She doesn't have to; we both know exactly what she was thinking.

"Sorry," I reply simply, knowing that anything else would be unnecessary at this point.

"We need to leave," she says sternly and I nod. I follow her out of the temple without another word, climbing into the tiny electric car waiting for us at the curb. I barely have time to buckle up before she speeds off, throwing me back against my seat and making me curse under my breath. For all her years in America have done for her, she hasn't learned to drive any better than when she first arrived. Part of me wants to make a comment, but the smarter side of my brain convinces me that I'd be better off keeping my mouth safely shut.

"Nice car," I comment offhandedly, gripping the handlebar on the roof of the car. "Where did you get it?"

"Stole it," she replies and her tone doesn't leave any room for further questions.

The sun is dying as we leave Tel Aviv behind us, sending a dark red streak blazing across the sky. As I look at it the first thing to come across my thoughts is the line from Lord of the Rings, the one about a red sky meaning that someone was going to die. Or was it that they already had? I can't remember now. In any case, the omen is an ominous one. Unconsciously, I'm hoping that I'm not going to be the designated corpse at the end of the night.

Ziva seems strangely calm in the driver's seat, even when she's driving like a lunatic. Her dark eyes are focused solely on the road, occasionally looking up to check the rearview mirror. I stare openly, knowing already that she's going to notice and call me on it. I study the dark hair pulled up by a rubber band and the makeup that smudges her already striking eyes. Next my eyes find the steadily rising bruises on her jaw, and I grit my teeth. It horrifies me that I did that to her, no matter how she justified it at the time. I hate that I did something like that to my partner… to the woman I love.

I meant it, of course, when I told her that. The confession had been building for a while now, and I only chose to let it escape when I thought I was going to die with that particular secret. I love her comical grip on American idioms, and I love the way her eyes narrow when she really, _really _wants to hit me. Sometimes I make her mad just to see that look. I obsess over her safety constantly, which is why we're here in the first place. I almost wonder if it was wrong going to her apartment that night, but I can't convince myself of anything close to that. If Michael hadn't killed her, her father would have. If there's one thing I know, it's that.

_No_, I think. _I did the right thing._

For once.

"You are tense," she says stoically, as though she was commenting on the weather or the state of the roads in scenic Tel Aviv.

"So are you," I reply and she leaves the subject alone.

She goes back to her driving, and I go back to my thinking. I have too many thoughts needing attention, all of them clamoring for time that I can't give them. Survival should really be the only thing on my mind right now, but my brain has never been that good at prioritizing. The only thing on my mind now is if I'm ever going to see Ziva again. She promised to get in touch once she felt it was safe, but did she mean it? I don't want to imagine my life without her, but I never wanted to live my life on the run, either.

My eyes stay on the road as my thoughts turn riotous, rebelling against me and making me anxious. Light flickers into my eyes and I blink, shocked at the sudden intrusion. I put my eyes on the side mirror of the car, and find exactly what I'm looking for. It only takes me a moment to pick up the headlights behind us, and I study them for a few miles before mentioning them to Ziva.

"I think we're being followed," I mention offhandedly, but Ziva doesn't seem bothered. "Friends of yours?"

"Friends of yours," she corrects. "It is most likely Gibbs, ensuring your safety."

"Gibbs isn't a friend of yours anymore?" I ask candidly. "Since when?"

"He no longer trusts me," she says quietly, her eyes softening. "I do not blame him."

"Did he say that?" I ask, shocked that Gibbs would go back on something like his trust in Ziva. Once Leroy Jethro Gibbs made up his mind, his mind was made up. No exceptions.

"He did not have to," she replies. "He will most likely tail us until he knows you are safe, and then return to Tel Aviv to collect the director and leave the country."

"Why wouldn't he trust you?" I ask, pressing the matter probably more than I should.

"He overheard my father's orders to kill you," she says acidly, the words hanging violently in the air between us. "What reason would he have to trust me still?"

"Did he hear you save me, too?" I ask pointedly. She has to know that none of her previous actions matter to me. "Ziva, you're risking everything to get me out of here. Gibbs knows you. He wouldn't just write you off."

"I almost murdered the closest thing Gibbs has to a son, Tony," she fires back. "If that does not convince him of my betrayal, then nothing will. I no longer deserve his trust after what I have done to you, and to the team."

"You're saving my life," I insist, "And I can assure you right now, you can do that whenever you damn well please."

"Enough!" she cries suddenly. "I do not wish to discuss this anymore." He whips her head over to face me, and it's not hard to notice the flush in her cheeks. Emotions are high, and I decide to leave the matter of Gibbs' trust alone for the time being. She's under enough stress as it is, and I don't want to add to it.

"What about you?" I ask for the second time today. "What's going to happen to you?"

"I will face my father and suffer the consequences," she says as casually as she would if she'd been mentioning inviting him over for lunch.

"What are the consequences?" I ask, terrified of what she'll be returning to.

"We will see," she says, her voice tight. Apparently we're terrified of the same thing. "We are getting close."

She signals once to turn left, but we never turn. It occurs to me that she's signaling for Gibbs to let lost, and—much to my surprise—he does. The headlights pull a hard left and disappear, lying in wait for the time they can jump into action. According to Ziva's logic, they'll be following me next. The comfort I find in knowing that Gibbs has my six is indescribable, and it gives me back the little bit of optimism I've been too afraid to feel for the last few hours. I like to believe that Gibbs wouldn't let me get killed; not unless he's the one doing it, anyway.

The road turns rocky the farther we go out, shaking the car. It doesn't help with Ziva's driving, and I start to wonder if I'll even make it out of the car alive… let alone out of the country.

Headlights come into view as soon as the lights behind us disappear. I study them for a few seconds, and I finally make out two large military-grade humvees. The desert camouflage makes them blend into the tall rock formations around them, but they're easily distinguishable once you get close enough to make them out. We finally pull to a stop around the time I can recognize the figures in front of the vehicles as ridiculously big men. One smaller man is in the middle, smiling wildly, flanked with four men who could very easily be linebackers. They're all wearing sour expressions, save for the smaller man, who's looking like he just won the lottery. As far as I can tell, he must be in charge of this particular outfit.

"Out of the car," Ziva says harshly, leaving the car running since she doesn't have a key with which to turn it back on; she must have hotwired it. I follow her orders and climb out, watching as she reaches into the backseat and pulls out a small black duffle bag. She leads the way into the middle of the group, her face illuminated by the lanterns two of the men held in their hands.

"Ziva!" the smaller man cries ceremoniously, stepping forward to kiss both sides of her face. I ignore my slight jealousy and stay still. "I've missed you, darling. The spy game has been so lonely without my favorite _femme fatale_."

Ziva gives him a wry smile; apparently they're friends.

"And of course you look stunning, as usual," he adds but it doesn't take him long to figure out that Ziva's not in the mood for flattery. He nods at the bag in Ziva's hand. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Seventy-five thousand American," she replies and my jaw almost hits the ground. "I will get you the other half when I receive word that he has returned to America safely."

_One hundred and fifty thousand? Jesus! _

Of course my first thought is absolute, mind-altering shock when Ziva hands him the bag. That reaction is quickly followed by the need to tell her that I'll pay her back, but it's ridiculous. It's not like I can just run over to the ATM and pull out a small fortune. Honestly, I'm not even sure I have it to give her. I'd have to sell a few organs on the black market, not to mention my beloved car. It occurs to me just how much she's sacrificing for me—ungodly amounts of money aside—and I make myself a silent promise that I'll make it up to her someday. I don't know how, but I will.

The man opens the top of the bag and rifles through the cash. My mind is still trying to process just how much money she's forking over when the man closes the bag and tosses it over to one of his surly henchmen. The entire scene would have been hilarious if the money going back and forth between the players wasn't to keep me breathing. The duffle bag is placed in the back of one of their giant trucks and locked safely away, the man who put it there returning with another larger bag. He throws it at me with no warning, both of my arms reflexively rising up to catch it. My left arm screams in protest and I have to bite my bottom lip from yelling out in pain. Ziva looks over at me and I nod, telling her that it's fine.

I let the bag fall to the ground and then look inside, finding American Marine fatigues in the same desert camouflage that covers their vehicles. Along with the clothes is a passport and fake driver's licenses with a picture of a man looked very much like me. If I didn't know better, he could be a brother. It shocks me that they went into such detail.

"John Cleveland," I read aloud from the paperwork. "I'm headed back home from a tour in Iraq."

"Happy trails, soldier," the smaller man says with a smile, giving me a half-hearted salute. "Your service to your country has been commendable." He turns to Ziva. "The American military uniform should insure that he's left well enough alone. In the current political climate, no one particularly feels like inciting the wrath of the new Roman Empire."

"Rightly so," she replies solemnly. "Where will he be going?"

"We're going to get him into Cairo by train tonight," he starts, pulling a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lighting it up. "Tomorrow morning, a cargo plane will be leaving for Spain. Once the… _cargo _is unloaded in sunny Seville the plane will depart for a private airfield in Virginia." He takes a deep pull from the cigarette, and lets the smoke out through his nose. "He is from D.C., yes? It is the best we could do on such short notice."

"Cargo?" I ask. "What kind of cargo?"

"Curious, aren't we?" he asks, facing me with an amused smile on his face. "I feel I should warn you, soldier: curious men don't survive in the Middle East." He grins. "Not long, anyway."

"I can take a hint," I reply sarcastically.

"Go on and change into your uniform, then," he orders, nodding toward the humvees. "Ziva and I have a few things to discuss before you begin your journey home."

I pick up my clothing, however reluctantly, and then head toward the back of the little encampment. I feel the other men's eyes on me as I move, and I'm starting to wonder if this is a good idea. Ziva trusts these people and usually that's good enough for me, but her taste in company hasn't been the best lately. That and it's not hard to believe that her father would have gotten to these people first, whoever they are. The Deputy Director of Mossad has more than his fair share of methods to keep something like this from happening. But, since I trust her with my life, I do as I'm told.

It takes me longer than usual to dress with only one good arm, to say nothing of the millions of buttons that military uniforms seem to need. Somehow, the fatigues are a perfect fit. Ziva must have been very descriptive in her information about me. I lace up the sand-colored boots I'm given and then rejoin the group, tucking my paperwork into the breast pocket of my jacket. Ziva is listening intently, nodding her head occasionally. She looks up at me as I come back into view but the glance lasts only a moment before her attention is back on the man who's the ringleader of this particular circus. I stand to her right, staying silent as they continue their conversation in Hebrew. Finally Ziva turns to me, not quite meeting my eyes.

"You will leave with these two men and they will drive you to a train a little farther south than Jerusalem," she instructs robotically as though reciting the direction from a couple of cue cards. "From there you will go to Cairo, and proceed to continue the trip as Brody has mentioned."

_Brody, _I think, taking note of his name. She clears her throat and looks up at me, her molten brown eyes shining in the warm light of the lanterns.

"You should go," she says and only someone who knows her as well as I do could have noticed the momentary break in her voice. She casts her eyes downward, and I take this as a cue to say my farewells. My heart is racing as I step forward, using my finger to tilt her chin upward.

"Thank you," I say solemnly, hoping that she realizes just how much I mean this. "Remember the promise you made me, okay?" When she doesn't reply, I refresh her memory. "You said you would find me when it was safe."

"Yes," she says noncommittally, which scares me. It's fairly obvious that she has no further comment on the matter, and so I leave it alone and hope for the best.

"Goodbye, Ziva," I say, cupping the back of her neck in my hand. For a moment, as I'm focusing on the tears building up in her eyes, I think I might kiss her. I think she knows it, too, because a quick shake of her head tells me that it's not a good idea in the present company. Instead I lean forward and press a kiss to her brow. Her skin is warm, and I can just make out the subtle spice of her shampoo. I feel her hand over my heart for just a moment, and then the moment is gone.

"_Shalom, _Tony," she says softly and I'm pulled away. Two huge men on either side of me are herding me along to the humvees, showing little or no compassion for the broken arm that they probably don't know I have.

I spare one last look at Ziva as I climb in the back seat, taking note of her reddened face and the single tear running over her left cheek. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realize that this may be the last time I see her. I burn the image into my mind then, promising myself that I won't forget it as long as I live—no matter how long that might be.

Then the humvee roars to life and I close the door behind me, not daring to turn back as it lurches into motion. The man in the driver's seat mutters something it what might be Hungarian before looking briefly at a map. The other one tells me in halting English that I should buckle up and I do so, my mind a million miles away. I close my eyes and pray for sleep to take me as I leave Tel Aviv—and Ziva—behind.

**A/N: Wow. I hate separating them like this. I'm pretty sure I'm dying inside. =/**


	5. Saviors

**Author's Note:**

**Thanks for all you who've kept up with this story! I realize I haven't updated it in a while, but I'm glad that you're still interested enough to keep reading. I wrote this on a review high, so I'm posting it a little earlier than I thought I would be.**

**Enjoy!**

**Chapter Five**

"**Saviors" **

I watch the truck drive away, taking Tony with it. I do my best to remember every second we have shared before this moment, but even my memory cannot accomplish such a task. I suppose it does not matter now; Tony does not realize it quite yet, but this is the last time we will see each other. Once he is out of sight, I turn to Brody and clear my face of all emotions he could possibly use against me. He is staring after the disappearing vehicle as well, an indescribable look on his face. If one does not know him as well as I do, it would seem that everything was fine. I, on the other hand, know when I have been betrayed.

"So, Brody," I say, trying to pull air into lungs that seem unwilling to take it, "When did you speak to my father?"

He laughs, putting out his cigarette with the heel of his boot.

"Oh, Ziva," he chuckles as though he pities me, "I should have known I wouldn't fool you. You, my dear, are far too clever for your own good."

His flattery does nothing for me.

"When?" I ask adamantly, keeping a careful eye on the two men left to act as Brody's protection.

"Many things have changed since you went to America. Your father has proved a very generous customer over the last four years." He stares over at me. "You don't seem surprised by the idea."

"Will Tony arrive safely?" I ask, since that is really the only thing that matters to me at this point.

"Quite," he answers calmly. "Your father is less interested in a trigger-happy American than in a traitorous daughter."

"I am no traitor," I reply defensively, keeping my head up and my eyes on Brody. "It is my father who has betrayed me. He set off a bomb in my apartment, knowing that I may have been home when it went off." I stare hard at Brody. "You are sentencing me to death if you deliver me to him."

"Let me put this in a different way, so that you may understand me a little more clearly," he says casually, "If you do not come with me—_peacefully_—you will be sentencing your friend to death as well as yourself, if that is indeed the case."

I cannot help it. I flinch.

"That's what I thought you'd say," he observes with a sick smile that I never knew he possessed. I start to wonder just how little I know about this man, and just how much I may have helped him destroy over the years we have known each other. The thought is truly terrifying, no matter what I have personally done in the past.

"How do we do this?" I ask calmly, bring myself back to the present. I am fully prepared to do what I must to ensure Tony's safety. If this is the last thing I can do for him, I will.

"Easily, if you cooperate," he replies with a hint of laughter. "All your father wants is a word. I'm under his orders to return you to him _alive._"

"Only so he can do the honors himself," I say viciously.

"What's it going to be, Ziva?" he asks, obviously tired of my arguments. "Are we going to do this your way or mine?"

"Make it fast," I say heatedly, "Before I change my mind."

Brody nods once at the smaller of his two bodyguards. The man takes something out of his pocket and approaches me with it. It takes me a few seconds to realize what it is, but then it dawns on me and I look over at my captor.

"Chloroform, Brody?" I ask, taunting him, "So passive. This time with my father has made you weak."

He does not say anything in return, but I can tell that the comment had the desired effect. He grits his teeth then lights another cigarette—his chosen method of handling stress. It gives me some comfort to know this is not easy for him, but apparently it is not difficult enough for him to stop.

I tense as the man walks up behind me, wrapping his large arm around my chest. My nerves are screaming for action but I keep myself purposefully still rather than giving in to reflex and backhanding the man. Seconds later, he presses the damp rag onto my mouth. I smell the antiseptic chemicals of the chloroform, and I unconsciously try to fight it. It does not take long, however, for the drug to take effect and I give up the waking world for lost.

-----

I watch silently as Ziva and the mercenary talk, only picking up pieces of their conversation. Originally my plan had been to ensure that Tony's exchange went well, then to tail him until he was on his way back to the States. Instead I climbed out of the car and snuck up on the meeting, my gut telling me that something was wrong. Then, I let Tony take off without me. For some reason, I stayed. I'm glad, too, because it looks like Ziva's going to have a lot on her hands in the next few minutes.

When I look at the man she's hired to help Tony, he seems calm and almost amused. Ziva, on the other hand, is tense and angry. It doesn't take me long to figure out that this deal went bad. Judging from the trapped look on Ziva's face, it went really bad. Before I can realize what's going on, one of the bigger guys takes a rag out of a small plastic bag and presses it against Ziva's mouth. She struggles for a second or two, and then she hits the ground.

Drawing my weapon, I watch as the two thugs grab either end of her body and lift her up. I almost take a cheap shot when one of their hands comes dangerously close to Ziva's chest, but the other man shouts something in Arabic and the hand freezes. I wait as they open the back hatch of the remaining vehicle, planning to stuff her body inside. It's now that I step out, strategically aiming the barrel of my newly-acquired Beretta at the mercenary's chest.

"Hold it," I order loudly, successfully gaining their undivided attention. The two men holding Ziva look like they're trying to decide whether or not to drop her body and reach for their guns. "I wouldn't do that just yet."

"Another American," the mercenary observes with a wry smile, "I can assure you this is none of your business."

"That's where you're wrong," I reply, stepping a little closer. "That's my agent you're kidnapping."

"On the contrary. I'm returning her home," he says and pauses. "Did you say she was your agent?"

"That's right."

"That would make you NCIS," he says, pondering the idea. I don't say anything—we both know he's right. "Eli mentioned you once or twice before."

"Did he?"

"Yes," he replies, "But nothing good."

"I didn't think so."

Of course this man's banter is just a way to distract me from noticing his hired muscle reach for the semi-automatic at his back, but I'm not that slow. He barely has a chance to raise the gun before mine goes off, embedding two rounds in his shoulder. He cries out and releases Ziva's feet, the rest of her body falling when the other man draws his weapon. He's faster than I expected him to be, and gets off a short burst of automatic fire that sends bullets flying past my left ear. He takes one in the shoulder and one in the chest before falling next to his counterpart. I turn and aim at the last man standing, who looks like he's been enjoying the show.

"You don't seem concerned about your friends," I point out.

"They are not friends of mine," he says blandly, watching as their blood begins to seep into the hard-packed sand around them. "They are Eli David's hired guns. They mean nothing to me." He looks up and faces me with unreadable brown eyes. "Of course now I have to explain why I won't be returning them in one piece."

"Oh, you won't have to worry about that," I say light-heartedly.

"No?"

"You're not going to be in one piece yourself," I answer and the man doesn't even blink. "You don't seem worried."

"You will not kill me, American," he replies, laughing. "Your federal agencies have a code of honor, no? You cannot kill an unarmed man with your service weapon." He grins. "Poor taste."

"Actually, this isn't my service weapon," I say casually, "I picked it up on the street a couple of hours ago. The serial number's been filed off so no one can trace it back to me."

This gets his attention.

"You wouldn't."

"Oh, I laugh, "I would."

I pull the trigger only once, sending the bullet well into his bicep. The force of the impact throws him backward and he screams, writhing next to the other men, both of whom have gone into shock already. I walk over to stand next to him, intending to issue an order and leave him alive. He could run and tell Deputy Director David whatever he wanted—as far as Vance is concerned, we were playing poker until after midnight.

"If I were you," I tell him, "I would forget any of this ever happened."

His reply is to spit at me and I back away, unaffected by this childish response. He moves onto his uninjured side and I watch him reach for the long blade at his ankle. I'm not too concerned; it's never a good idea to bring a knife to a gun fight. I'm about to kick it out of his hand when he suddenly jerks in the opposite direction, bringing the knife's serrated edge against Ziva's throat. She's remained unconscious through all of this, and she doesn't stir even when her life is being threatened. All it takes is one look for me to know, without a doubt, that he'll do it. This time I don't hesitate to put one in his chest.

He drops the knife, gives a few shuddering gasps as blood begins to fill his lungs and invade his mouth, and then he loses consciousness. A quick feel of his carotid artery tells me that the mercenary has made his very last deal. I wish I could feel some sense of justification for his death, but I can't. Death is almost never justified, least of all by me.

I kick the weapons well out of reach and wipe my own gun down, erasing my fingerprints and any evidence that I was ever here. I leave the revolver next to one of the thugs so that any rookie cop could put two and two together. With any luck, two and two won't add up to me.

I kneel down and scoop Ziva into my arms, surprised at how light she is even as dead weight. She wouldn't have ingested much of the chloroform in just a few seconds, but I check her pulse and breathing anyway. She seems fine, despite the fact that she's been all too close to death far too many times today. I study her face as I carry her back to the car, taking note of the angry bruises forming along her jaw. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that this was her attempt at covering Tony's escape, and I can only imagine what kind of shape he's in now that he's done it. In addition to the bruises, I'm finally noticing the fine lines around her eyes. How long had they been there? The last few days have been convincing me that there may be a side of Ziva I never noticed, and now we're all paying for it. Maybe if I'd noticed earlier…

No.

I can almost hear Ducky clucking his tongue at me, spouting every psychological fact that would have led me to these feelings. In the back of my mind I can hear Jen berating me, but her voice—even in my mind—is always a welcome one. I wish she could be here and give me advice; advice that I would probably ignore anyway. Vance and I may finally be starting to see eye to eye, but he'll never be the director in my mind. My director died in a diner in the middle of the Californian desert.

I get to the car before I can take these thoughts any further, somehow balancing Ziva's unconscious body on one side so I can use the other to open the door. It takes some maneuvering, but I slide her along the backseat and then shut her inside. Seconds later I'm behind the wheel and speeding away in the general direction I saw Tony's escorts go a few minutes before. Unfortunately for me, there are no signs and no street lights. There's a lot of darkness and a lot of flat, unrecognizable land. It doesn't take me long to realize that I'm going to be in serious trouble if I get lost.

A few minutes after that epiphany, I'm lost.

-----

It's not at all surprising to find that I can't sleep under the circumstances, so I find myself staring out at the expanse of nothingness on the other side of my window. Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dumb are listening to some kind of God-awful wailing, and they actually seem to be enjoying it. If I was in a better mood, I may have cracked a joke or requested to change the station. Instead, I keep my eyes trained on the terrain and my thoughts focused on staying alive.

We reach our destination much sooner that I thought we would. Israel is a smaller country than most people think, which would be why I constantly misplaced it on geography tests all through high school and college.

Oh, the irony.

A train in the distance is barely visible as we slow to a stop in front of a wooden shack and climb out of the massive truck. It's a small train that looks like it's mainly for non-human cargo, but I suppose it'll get me where I'm going, which looks like Cairo at the moment. I've always wanted to see Egypt, but something tells me I'm not going to have time for sight-seeing.

My traveling companions seem content to take up the lead, and I let them. I'm only a senior agent in America, and I am most definitely not home. They have the authority here, and I gladly defer to it. We come up to a sliding door in one of the train cars, and they motion for me to board. I nod in thanks, not daring to attempt the few lousy words I know in Hungarian. I would probably insult them somehow, so I leave the language barrier exactly where it is.

They step aside and I climb up the few steps to find a few haphazardly placed benches. It's a small surprise—a welcome one, for once—that I won't be sleeping on a bag of salt in between two chickens and a goat. I find a seat near the back of the car and stay put, thoroughly intent on sleeping the entire way to Cairo. I take note of the other passengers, and find that they're all incredibly shady-looking. None of them seem particularly overjoyed about my presence here, but they're going to have to deal with it because I'm not walking.

Before long the train fires up its engines and I can feel it getting ready to lurch into motion. I settle into my seat and prepare for what will undoubtedly be a long trip, cradling my left arm against my chest. I make a mental note to find a makeshift sling somewhere and I'm debating the wisdom in giving myself that kind of identifying mark when I look out the window and see my guides talking beside the train.

They seem to be arguing about something, and I keep my eyes trained on them. Finally they come to whatever agreement they were looking for, and my heart picks up a bit when I realize that they've pulled their guns out of whatever pocket they were hiding them in. They head for the door I just came through, and it's fairly obvious that they've changed their minds about getting me out safely.

I look around for an escape route, and I place no faith whatsoever in my fellow passengers coming to my rescue. I take my gun out of my bag and keep it in my hand, knowing that it's pretty much my only line of defense. I'm a solitary American federal agent with a broken arm… I might as well be a sitting duck. Just before they board the train, my head turns and my eyes land on a tiny door that—I assume—leads to the next car. I jump from my seat and try the handle, finding it mercifully unlocked. I slip through it unnoticed, just as the train begins to move.

Just before I reach the next car, there's a space of separation that's connected by giant metal links. The configuration is something like a subway car, and I tentatively place my weight on the joint between the two cars. It holds and then I jump the three feet to the ground, rolling painfully away as the train picks up speed and takes off with my would-be killers still on it.

Anthony DiNozzo is nothing if not resourceful.

I'm patting myself on the back for maybe a minute before I realize that I'm stranded in a foreign country with only basic knowledge of the language and an entire government agency after my blood. After those crippling realizations, the only thing that could make this situation worse is my awareness that this means one of two things: Ziva's friends betrayed her, or Ziva betrayed me. Since the latter is the least likely, I decide to go with the first option. This conclusion brings with it the idea that Ziva may have been attacked too, which sends my heart clamoring up my throat.

She's hurt—maybe dead—and I have no way of getting back to her.

-----

Every mile looks like the last, and there's nothing around me to distinguish where I'm going from where I've been. As much as I would love to leave her alone for the time being, I know that I'm not getting much farther without Ziva to tell me where the hell I'm going. I pull off the makeshift path and stop the car, grabbing a bottle of water from the cup holder. It's a little hotter than room temperature, but it serves my purposes well enough for the time being.

I do my best to be gentle as I slide her out of the back seat, keeping my arms beneath her knees and against the back of her neck. I set her up against the side of the car, her back leaning on the door and her legs splayed out in front of her. I tap her cheek lightly, to no avail. Her eyes remain closed.

"Ziva," I urge strongly, tapping her again, "Ziva, wake up."

No response.

"Ziva!" I say louder, waiting for her to flinch at the sound and open her eyes. At this point I'd be happy if she hauled off and hit me out of a startle reflex, so long as she rejoined the land of the living.

Unfortunately, none of that happens.

She remains still and seemingly lifeless, even when I start to shake her a little harder. Her head slumps down to her chest and I catch sight of her bruises again when they're illuminated by the piercing read of the taillights. I run my thumb along them, feeling for an upset of the bone. Her jaw is intact, but I feel for a pulse again when I can't feel her breath against my hand. I don't like what I find. Her heartbeat is light and not nearly as regular as I'd like it to be. For whatever reason, her body isn't handling the chloroform like it should.

I try waking her again and my attention drifts back to her injuries, my brain finally clicking onto an idea that I don't like the sound of. On a hunch my hand travels to the back of her head, feeling along her skull until I come across what I'm looking for. A small bump is there, and my best explanation for it is the injuries that they had decided to stage in her defense. DiNozzo would be the first to tell you that he's a lover, but I know for a fact that he's not a bad fighter, either. If Ziva convinced him not to hold anything back, she could have gotten the knot on her head from falling after the blow. Even if she hadn't fallen, a couple of good blows to the jaw will do anyone a fair amount of damage.

Ziva had a concussion.

Any idiot knows that chloroform and head injuries don't go well together. The results could be dangerous—even fatal.

"Come on, Ziva," I say again, holding her face in my hands and shifting it from side to side. "Wake up…"

**A/N: Was that totally terrible of me?**


	6. Compromises

**Author's Note:**

**Next chapter! Not much to note. lol**

**Tomorrow's my birthday, so leave me some birthday reviews! It'll be the best present of all time ever. =)**

**Chapter Six**

"**Compromises"**

Twenty minutes later, Ziva is still unconscious. Her pulse is getting a little stronger as time passes, which is comforting, but she doesn't seem all that willing to wake up. Despite my pleas and jostling as well as several attempts at splashing water in her face, she stays still. Ducky's voice in the back of my head is telling me that I need to get her to a hospital—immediately. It's so real, in fact, that I have to check over my shoulder to make sure he's not actually standing there. In the other corner of my brain, Jen is telling me that admitting her to the hospital is almost guaranteeing that her father will catch up with her, not to mention leaving Tony to fend for himself.

_He's injured, _she tells me pointedly. _He won't be able to defend himself against two armed men. _

"Damn it, Jen," I say aloud, not caring if I'm talking to myself, "If I leave her like this she's not going to make it. Something's seriously wrong."

_Ziva' strong. _

"I know that," I reply emphatically, "She's stronger than any of us."

_That means she can make it through this. She has a better chance right off the bat than Tony does, but that might not matter. She was willing to give her life for Tony. You're only wasting that sacrifice by staying here, _she urges me.

"She's not going to die."

_You have to go, Jethro, or you'll lose both of them. _

She's right, of course. Jen always was. Taking Ziva to a hospital is a guaranteed death sentence for almost everyone involved, but I can't let her die here… if I have any choice in the matter, I won't let her die at all. I put my head in my hands and take a few steadying breaths, trying to fathom the fact that I may very well be choosing between one life and the other. Of course I'd be more than willing to hand over my own, but it's not really possible now.

"Who are you talking to?"

My head jerks up and my heart pounds against my rib cage when I look up to find Ziva's cloudy and heavy-lidded eyes staring at me. She grimaces in pain and holds her stomach before closing her eyes and leaning her head back against the car. She's obviously in agony, but I'm so glad to see her awake that it doesn't dawn on me. I can't exactly form words yet, but my hands reach out and take her shoulders.

"What is wrong?" she asks, reopening her eyes and quickly noticing my worry. "Where are we?"

"The middle of nowhere," I answer candidly.

"What am I doing here?" she asks, her eyes surveying her surroundings and finding nothing worth committing to memory. "Why are you here?"

"Long story," I reply shortly, holding onto her arms. "I'll tell you everything later but right now I need you to tell me where those men are taking Tony."

"Tony?" she questions absently as though trying to remember the name's significance. Her dark eyes narrow in thought and she purses her lips, perusing her memories for a moment before her eyes widen in realization and she jerks, grasping my arm in her fist.

"Tony!" she cries, doing her best to stand and finding herself unable. Her legs shake a bit and she slides back down the ground. "We must find Tony!"

"First you have to tell me where they're headed," I say calmly, needing her to keep a level head.

"South," she says quickly. "He is boarding a train to Cairo."

"Can you tell me how to get there?"

"I will drive," she argues and I shake my head, unwilling to let someone who just came out of a miniature coma behind the wheel. I'm still not entirely certain why she reacted so badly to the drug, or what other side effects it's going to have. I observe her pallid skin and bloodshot eyes, and there's no way in hell I'm letting her drive.

"No," I say firmly, "You're not."

"I know the region better. I am better equipped to deal with the obstacles," she insists, meeting my eyes, "And anyone will tell you that my driving will get us there faster than me giving you directions."

"You've been unconscious for the better part of an hour," I tell her emphatically, "I'm not letting you behind the wheel. If you pass out, we're both dead."

"I will not pass out," she informs me matter-of-factly. "If I feel as though I might, I will tell you and gladly hand over control of the vehicle."

I eye her suspiciously, wondering if she really would tell me.

"You mean it?" I ask her, "If you don't think you're okay, you'll tell me?"

"The very moment it occurs to me," she confirms. "I have no wish to take both our lives out of foolish pride."

I stand up, offering her a hand and pulling her up with me. She wobbles for a moment, but then stands up straight and cuts her eyes at me as though daring me to make something of her temporary instability. Against my better judgment I move around to the passenger's seat, keeping an eye on her movements. She climbs into the driver's seat and buckles up, taking a quick moment to get her bearings.

"You know where we are?" I ask.

"Very well," she replies, nodding. "When I was twelve, I was dropped off in this desert for a week." She looks over the console at me with a wry smile. "Survival training."

"You're doing well so far," I say and she gives a small laugh, reaching down to put the car in gear. Her hand stops halfway there, and her eyes get wide. Before I can ask what's wrong, she opens the car door and leans out. Her body shudders while she empties her stomach, after which I offer her my bottle of water and wait patiently as she rinses out her mouth. When she's done she hands the bottle back and puts the car into gear.

"Feel better?" I ask as we speed off.

"Much."

-----

Two hours pass while I sit on the side of the train tracks, cradling my broken arm and clutching my gun. It must be after midnight now, but I'm not sure. The moon is high and the air smells like sand and oil. A few wary-eyed people pass by, but not many. Most of these people are more than happy to leave me alone when they catch sight of my uniform, which is fine by me. I'm too busy trying to figure out what I'm doing next to worry about who's going to be jumping me when I'm not looking.

So far, the only thing I've figured out for sure is that I have to get out of here. I could board the next train and go wherever it takes me, but I doubt it's going to be anywhere other than Cairo. Since two ridiculously unhappy hired guns are on the other side of that particular journey, I want no part of it. Of course, it's not like I can stop and ask for directions from the locals. Even if the language barrier didn't exist, most of them are eyeing me with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. Honestly, I don't blame them. I must look fairly out of place here. I _feel _out of place here. A week ago my life may not have been completely normal, but it was closer than my life now ever will be.

I'm debating the wisdom of walking to the nearest town and finding a car when the dim glimmer of headlights catches my intention. I keep an eye on them as they rapidly approach, the car zigzagging like the driver is well on his way to his next DUI.

_My God, it's an epidemic,_ I think. _They all drive like Ziva. _

That thought, of course, brings an unpleasant tension to my chest. The longer I spend thinking on these decrepit old tracks, the more I think I'm never going to see her again. If I ever make it home I'll have to explain to Gibbs, McGee, and Abby why I just left her behind. She did everything in her power to save me, and I deserted her.

The sound of spraying gravel brings me out of my depressed trance, and for a moment I think I'm hallucinating when Ziva climbs out of the car. Gibbs gets out next, looking just as severe as he always does. I stand, unsure if my legs will even allow me to stay upright. The eerie glow from the car's headlights give them an other-worldly quality that I don't want to look too much into for fear that I'll wake up and find that it was all a dream.

"Tony!" Ziva cries, hurrying over to me.

_Oh, my God, _I think incredulously as she comes closer. _It's really her._

Her eyes rapidly scan over me as she approaches; I'm guessing it's to make sure that I'm in one piece. When she's convinced that I'm fine, she throws her arms around my neck. The action hurts my arm, but I couldn't care less. My good arm winds around her and holds her close, the top of her head resting against my chin. I close my eyes and say a prayer of thanks, breathing her in.

"How did you escape?" she asks finally, pulling away slightly to look up at me.

"Slipped out the back," I say, shrugging. "They may be big, but they're not that bright."

She laughs and presses her palm against my cheek. She says something in Hebrew that I couldn't even begin to understand, but I have a feeling that it's close to what I've been thinking since she jumped out of the car. I take a moment to study her, noting the hideous bruises on her beautiful face and her incredibly pale skin. _She's been through hell, _I assess with some certainty. Some of it was at my hands, which I'll atone for someday in any way I can. That particular aspect was hell for both of us.

"What about the guy?" I ask, searching my subconscious for his name. "Brody?"

"Taken care of," Gibbs adds solemnly from a few feet away, sending me a look that says very clearly that Brody and his goons won't be reappearing any time soon.

"He was working for my father," she says and it doesn't take much to notice how much she's beating herself up over this. "I should have known this, but I have spent too much time in America. Nothing is how I left it."

"It'll be okay," I assure, smoothing the hair flying away from her face. I look up at Gibbs, and I temporarily ignore his unsatisfied glare at seeing Ziva and me so close to each other. "Right boss?"

He nods and I look back down at Ziva.

"See, even Gibbs says it'll be fine," I tell her, doing my best to convince my self the same thing. She nods her head dutifully, and then her expression changes completely. Her eyes glass over and are suddenly vacant, leaving me to catch her when she collapses against me. Her name tumbles from my lips as I do my best to keep her upright with one good arm. Gibbs curses and rushes over, scooping her up and looking perfectly calm.

"What's going on?" I ask as he starts toward the car. "What happened to her?"

"Will you get the damn door, DiNozzo?" he barks, ignoring my question. I leap forward and do as I'm told, watching helplessly as he lays her across the back seat.

"Boss?" I ask again as he shuts the door and heads for the driver's seat.

"You don't want to know, DiNozzo," he mutters under his breath. "Get in the car."

"Not until you tell me what's going on."

"Get in the car!" he yells, and it doesn't come across as any kind of suggestion. For once, though, I stand my ground against him. I don't think I've ever had a reason to, but still the thought occurs to me. Gibbs doesn't seem surprised—even if I am—but his eyes soften a fraction and he exhales loudly.

"They drugged her," he says quietly. Before I can argue that Ziva wouldn't react so badly to drugs he adds, "She had a concussion."

Before my mouth can pose the stupid question of how, my brain flashes back to the rooftop and the sickening _crack _of the back of her head when it hit the ground. My stomach drops and it feels very much like I've been kicked in the hest. Gibbs sees the color drain from my face and he shakes his head.

"No time for that," he says firmly, bringing me out of my down-spiral. "We've got to keep moving."

I nod shakily and climb in the back of the car with Ziva and cradle her head in my lap. Her skin is cool to the touch as I brush my fingers over it, keeping her hair out of her face and smoothing her brow when she grimaces in her sleep. The car is silent as Gibbs drives, seemingly aware of where we need to go.

"She's going to wake up, right?" I ask and the voice I hear is unfamiliar. The man speaking is scared and broken; I still feel stronger than that. Maybe I'm only kidding myself.

"She woke up on her own last time," he says, sparing a glance backwards as he drove. "She looks more responsive this time. I'd say her chances are good. She's improving."

"Where are we going, then?" I ask, taking her hand. I forget sometimes how small Ziva is; it isn't until her hand is completely enveloped in mine that it occurs to me. She's always so imposing and energetic that it escapes all of us. Ziva doesn't get hurt, remember? But here she is, unconscious in my lap, and all the ninja moves in the world aren't going to wake her up.

"South," he answers simply. "Jerusalem."

"Will she be safe there?" I ask, not bothering to hide the fear in my voice.

"For a little while, at least," he returns absently. "You can't stay there forever. We'll find a better place for you to stay. A more permanent one."

"Permanent?" I ask, shocked. "How long do we have to hide?"

"No clue," he answers honestly, and after that I don't feel much like talking.

-----

Jerusalem is quiet, which isn't surprising once I realize that it's nearing two in the morning. The seemingly endless drive has been punctuated by brief moments of consciousness from Ziva, as well as occasional pit stops so she can surrender her lunch. But her color is slowly improving, which makes me feel much better. Once she stayed awake for almost thirty minutes which—according to Gibbs—is the longest yet, save for the hour-long trip she stayed awake to go get me.

We scour the city for almost an hour, relying solely upon Gibbs' brief affair with the Hebrew language. It was a total fluke when, just before giving up, we found a hostel whose owner spoke a little spotty English. He and Gibbs were able to negotiate the terms of our temporary stay, and we were lead up to the room. Everything in it is worn and threadbare, but it works. There's a full-sized bed and a single flickering lamp, and a small table and chair next to the window. Gibbs carries Ziva while I lead the way, pulling back the sheets on the worn-out bed for her to crawl in. She's not awake to do so herself, but Gibbs lays her down while I work on unlacing her boots. They drop to the floor and I pull the blankets up to her shoulders, careful to keep her on her side in case she needs to be sick again.

Gibbs takes a seat in the chair by the one small window and I lay across the foot of the bed, peeling off my jacket and starting to unlace my own boots. I look over at Gibbs, and I can honestly say that this is the oldest I've ever seen him. It's then that it occurs to me just how much _he's _risking by being here. Everyone seems to be risking everything these days. This time, however, I don't intend to let myself get wrapped up in my own guilt. The drive over here, the long minutes staring down at Ziva's face, has convinced me that they're doing this out of love. Gibbs and the rest of the team are my family, and I would do all of this for them just as quickly as they've been to do it for me.

"Should we get a doctor in here, boss?" I ask, breaking the stubborn silence. Gibbs shakes his head. "What if they can do something for her?"

"The last thing Ziva's body needs right now is more drugs," he says bluntly, crossing his arms over his chest. "That's all a doctor would be able to give her. We're better off just watching her condition and doing what we can to keep her comfortable until the stuff is out of her system."

"How long will that take?"

"No idea," he replies, "It's usually pretty quick, but I don't know what her injuries are going to do for her metabolism. It could slow it down, or it could be fine."

I hang my head.

"Boss, I—"

"I know, DiNozzo," he says, fixing on me with his arctic blue eyes. "You did what you felt you had to do."

"Ziva told you," I say plainly, not really asking for confirmation.

"She didn't have to."

"It was for nothing," I say quietly. "I only did it because I thought I was saving her life, but it didn't save anything." I lower my eyes. "I should have just told her no, and she would be fine now instead of floating in and out of consciousness."

"You couldn't have known this was going to happen," he argues.

"I should have known."

Gibbs reply to this was to uncross his arms, stand from up his chair, and walk the two feet to the bed. Before I can ask what he's doing, he gives me a firm head slap and stares at me pointedly. It clearly asks, _Are we done with this conversation?_

"Thanks, boss."

"I don't want to hear about it again."

"Yes, boss."

"I'll make a few phone calls in the morning," he says, effectively changing the subject as he takes his place by the window again. "It'll take me a bit of time, but I can get you two out of here and I can get back to Tel Aviv. With any luck, Vance and I will be long gone before the Deputy Director figures out what's going on."

"Where are we going?" I ask, sparing a quick glance over at Ziva's sleeping form.

"You'll be going to Canada, most likely," he says thoughtfully. "Ziva has more potential to blend in, so she'll probably be somewhere in South America."

"What?" I ask, thoroughly put-off by the idea of being separated. "We're not staying together?"

Gibbs shakes his head.

"Too dangerous to have the two of you together," he explains, "Whoever David sends will be looking for both of you. We can keep you safer longer this way."

"Boss, I don't think…"

"No," a firm voice says and the room stands still.

We turn, surprised at the interruption, and find Ziva's eyes open and clear. She pulls herself up with some effort and I'm afraid to offer her any help. From the fierce, warrior-princess look in her eyes, she doesn't need any help. When her back is firmly against the rickety headboard, she repeats her earlier position on the matter and faces Gibbs with her typical iron will. I can't begin to express how good it feels to see her back to normal, no matter how short a time it might be.

"We must stay together," she says pointedly, meeting Gibbs head-on. "Tony is injured, and could not sufficiently defend himself. I must stay with him."

"I don't know if you noticed this, David," he returns flatly, "But you're not exactly in the best shape, either. We've had a hard time keeping you conscious."

"I will recover," she says, and it's not hard to imagine that this is the end of that particular avenue of conversation. "Tony and I will fare better together."

"What she says," I add lamely and Gibbs glares. Honestly, my own safety is the last thing on my mind. The idea of being on a different continent from Ziva makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. She may think that she's got the market cornered on self-defense, but there's a reason we were partnered together in the first place. We take care of each other—end of story.

Gibbs must be able to see this, because his stance relaxes and he lets out a long breath; the universal gesture of defeat. I look over at Ziva and nod, silently thanking her for the stand she's taken.

"How are you feeling?" I ask, meeting her impossibly dark and tired eyes.

"I have been better, Tony," she deadpans and I spare a laugh. She sneaks me a small smile, and it communicates everything I need to know. We're both happy that the other is okay, and that makes the minor stuff fade to the background for the time being. The minor stuff, of course, being our injuries and failed escape attempt from a major political and military power in the Middle East.

_Maybe not so minor after all, _I think to myself and cringe.

Gibbs is seemingly unaware of this exchange, searching for numbers on his phone and scribbling them on the back of a receipt he must have kept from Tel Aviv. We watch for a few minutes, saying nothing while he grunts in frustration and painstakingly records numbers on the tiny piece of paper. Ziva and I look at each other, both of us trying to figure out what exactly he's doing, but he speaks up before either of us can pose the question.

"You two just had to be difficult," he says grumpily, finally setting his pen down.

"How's that, boss?"

"If you're going to be together, you're going to need extra precautions," he says. "Help. Someone you can trust."

"We seem to be running low on those," Ziva comments dryly.

"I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel myself."

"Perhaps we are better off remaining on our own," she offers. "No connections, no accomplices. I am not exactly a veteran at the game of disappearing, Gibbs."

"Trust me," he says with a hollow laugh, "No one really disappears, Ziva. Except for this guy. I can turn you over to him, and he'll be able to get you anything you need."

"Where's all this taking place, boss?" I ask. "Canada? South America? I could use a little work on my Spanish."

"It won't do you any good in France," he replies, eyeing me. "You're going to Paris."


	7. Confessions

**Author's Note:**

**This is a fairly short chapter compared to the rest, but I feel like Tony and Ziva needed it before everything picked up again. In any case, I hope it wasn't too OOC and I hope even more that you all enjoy it!**

**Thanks to JEM, who was more instrumental to this chapter than even she knows.  
**

**Chapter Seven**

"**Confessions"**

Two days pass quickly, and I am feeling better with each day. I am sleeping less and less, and I have been able to keep a few meager meals down. I have not returned to my full strength, but I will soon. Tony and Gibbs still alternate their shifts watching me, but I have come to a place of acceptance that they are only trying to help. Ordinarily, I would be quick to tell them that I am quite capable of caring for myself. Now, however, the argument dies before it can leave my mouth. Of course the idea is ridiculous. If I was really so capable, I would not need caring for in the first place. Instead I allow them to do what they want, knowing that it is just as much for them as it is for me.

Now it is late evening, and the sun is beginning its retreat over the horizon. I am enjoying the lounge chair that Tony has set up for me outside, so I can breathe in the fresh air. He has gone out for something; he would not say what. He has been quiet the last few days, but we all have been. I take this opportunity to enjoy the solitude, quite content to meddle through my thoughts. They are vast, and not many of them are positive. I am doing everything I can to prepare myself for leaving this life behind, despite knowing almost my entire life that the day would come eventually. It was silly to think, even as a child, that I could do this forever.

And now we are leaving for Paris, which is the last place I expected to retire to. Jenny always spoke highly of it, and it does not take a genius to figure out why. I have been to Paris before, several times, but I had never considered living there. With Tony, much less. While the idea is not entirely unappealing, it is unexpected. Living with him will take a lot of work, and even more strength of will. I would be lying, though, if I said that it was not a tempting offer. Unfortunately, I am responsible for his attempted murder and subsequent escape. If there is anything in the world I do not deserve, it is his affection. Inexplicably, it is exactly this that he seems so willing to give.

"You don't look very happy," a familiar voice says, and I open my eyes to find to Tony studying me warily. A fine sheen of sweat covers his skin, illuminating it in the backwash of the sun. He is still wearing his soldier's uniform, though without the jacket. Unintentionally I notice how green it makes his eyes appear in the dying light.

"How happy should I look?" I ask with the ghost of a grin in his direction. The action puts him at ease, however temporarily, and he returns my smile with one of his own. I watch as he pulls up his own chair next to mine, falling into it with a groan.

"Where's Gibbs?" he asks, folding his arms behind his head.

"Sleeping," I reply. "Or he is trying, since he has been unable to do so in the last few days."

"Only because you snore," he prods obnoxiously. "Like a drunken sailor, I used to say. You're a window-rattler."

"You are exaggerating."

"Afraid not, sweet cheeks," he says and I scoff at the nickname from so long ago. I am tempted to offer his in reply, but I cannot bring myself to do it.

"Well, then it should be easier now that I am outside and awake," I tell him dryly and he spares a laugh. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

He turns to me. "What?"

"You went out looking for something, yes?" I ask. "Did you find it?"

"I wasn't really looking for anything. I just felt like a walk," he replies casually but I detect something secretive in the way he says it.

"A walk?"

"Yeah, Zee," he says sarcastically, "You know? That thing where you move your legs and go places? I hear it's widely used in places outside the States."

"I know what a walk is," I reply acidly but it is hard to miss the familiar joking nature of his tone. This is the Tony I have missed so dearly. "So… what did you decide?"

This makes him turn, his brow wrinkled in confusion.

"Decide?" he asks, unsure of what the question entails. "What was I supposed to decide?"

"I can only assume that it is why you walked," I say logically, closing my eyes and leaning my head back. "You are never stationary when you think. And since you had to leave to do your thinking, I am left to assume that it has something to do with Gibbs or myself." I smirk knowingly at his silence. "Am I correct?"

"I finally decided what to get Gibbs for his birthday," he replies half-heartedly, obviously lying. "I know it's a few months off, but it doesn't hurt to be prepared."

"And what is the verdict?"

"I'm thinking a spa weekend," he jokes, "The man could use a little pampering. It'll do wonders for his mood."

I laugh, doing my best to imagine Gibbs at something as feminine as a spa.

"I am sure he will appreciate the gesture," I reply.

"No doubt."

"Your thoughts are simple, considering the situation we find ourselves in," I sigh. "I wish I could say the same."

"What's on your mind?" he questions, his concern obvious in the tone of his voice. This is something about him that I know quite well now.

"Starting over," I reply honestly. "I have always planned for it, but living it is something quite different. More difficult, it seems." I groan, considering the idea. "I had always hoped I would handle it better than I have been in the last few days."

"You had a head start on me," he scoffs. "I thought I would be in the same apartment for the rest of my natural life. Same job, same car. Same everything. This was way out of the realm of possibility as far as I was concerned."

"I read a book once," I say calmly, turning to face him, "One of my favorite lines was 'God punishes us for what we cannot imagine.'"

"Yeah," he says bitterly, "Thanks for that. But it does explain a lot."

"You are not being punished, Tony," I tell him softly, "I am."

His face tells me that he wants to argue, but I stop him before he can.

"It is true, and you know this," I say, doing my very best to convince him of this. "It was my mistrust of you and my misplaced trust in my father that has done this to us. If I had been more skeptical—more like the agent that Gibbs has turned me into over the last four years—I would have been able to spare us all of this." I lower my eyes. "The pain and the running. The fear."

"It would have happened sometime or another," he says earnestly, doing his best to console me. However kind of him, his solace can only be temporary. "This is going to sound kind of bad, but I'm glad it happened now."

"You cannot be serious," I say incredulously.

"I didn't say that I'm glad it happened, so calm down," he warns, "I just meant that I'm glad it was now, when Gibbs and I could be here to protect you."

"When you say it that way," I smile, "I am glad as well."

"You mean it?" he asks me. "Really?"

"I do not lie, Tony," I shrug. "Not about this, anyway."

"What do you lie about?" he asks, and his tone has shifted to one of playful curiosity rather than one born out of skepticism.

"I am a woman, Tony," I reply, "It can only be two things."

"Age and weight," he says reflexively, as though he had already given the topic plenty of thought. He is wrong, of course, and it makes me wonder.

"No," I tell him. "I was going to say family and lovers." I fix him with a hard stare. "Should I lie about my age and weight?"

"Oh, no," he says, backpedaling quickly. "Your body is perfect. Wait! I mean that your weight is… uh, average."

"Average?" I ask and his eyes widen.

"Not average, per se," he says and groans. "You know what I mean."

"And my age?"

"Good question," he says. "I don't really know how old you are."

I laugh. "If you had to guess?"

"I'm afraid to," he says warily. "You look young, but you're too experienced to be any less than thirty-five."

"_Tsk, tsk_, Tony," I say, wiggling my finger at him. "Never tell a woman that she looks older than she actually is."

"So less than thirty-five," he says thoughtfully. "Thirty-three?"

I shake my head.

"Am I close?" he asks and I do not answer. "Thirty-two, then? Thirty?"

"You are terrible at this game," I say with a smile. "If you do not guess it soon, I will be quite insulted."

"You're not messing with me, are you?" he asks. "Are you older than thirty-five?"

"Am I?"

"You're not," he says with some finality and he is, of course, correct. "What do I win if I guess it?"

"As long as you do not venture into the forties, I will not break your nose," I offer and he winces. "That will be reward enough."

"Then I give up."

"So soon?" I laugh and turn to face him. "I will have pity on you, then. I am twenty-nine years old."

"You're kidding," he says, amazed. It makes me wonder if I really do look much older. He studies me a little longer, his eyes scanning my body curiously, and I fight to keep the flush from my cheeks. I must seem different from the other women of my age in America. Finally he says, "Yeah, okay… I can see it."

"Good. If you had not believed me, I may have been forced to injure you anyway," I threaten lightly and we laugh. He takes another look over me, and smirks. The look makes me shiver slightly.

"I believe you, alright."

With that he slides a pair of worn sunglasses over his eyes and leans his head back against the chair. His breathing is calm and even, but it is not hard to see the thoughts tumbling back and forth across his face. I decide to leave him to them, just as he has been kind enough to leave me to mine. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, relishing the moment. It is calm, and I am temporarily at peace. Since I do not know when I will be able to experience this again, I am more than grateful for the opportunity. Just before I think I might fall asleep, Tony's voice interrupts me.

"I'm sorry about Michael."

I sigh, even though I know that this conversation had to happen sometime. Despite our banter a few minutes before, he has chosen to return to darker waters. Honestly, I was hoping it would a long time from now. One look at Tony's face tells me that he is ready now, and I feel that I should oblige him.

"That is not something you should worry about."

"I can't help it," he replies solemnly, his eyes now narrowed in my direction. "I can't take it back, no matter how much I want to." He looks down. "But I don't really want to, to tell you the truth."

"You did what you felt you needed to do," I say simply, though secretly believing that there was much more to that fight that either of us is currently willing to believe.

"You're going easy on me," he replies bluntly, and I do not bother denying the accusation. "Why?"

"Because I was wrong," I say honestly, doing my best to keep my own agony out of my voice. While I am glad that it is Tony I am sitting next to, rather than Michael, it does not take away the sting of loss… nor does it erase the anguish of the dead man's betrayal.

"I could have done something else," he offers, but neither of us believes it.

"You could have," I admit, "But you did not do something else. I question your decision now, as I will for some time. I cared for him very much." I see the hurt on his face, and I am quick to amend my statement. "However, yours is the judgment that I have always trusted and will continue to trust in the future. You know things that I do not, and never will. If you say that you had no choice, I have no choice but to believe you."

"I never wanted to hurt you," he says, his teeth gritted and his eyes hard. "I know that seems hard to believe, but it's the truth. Even before that night in your apartment, I knew something was wrong. I couldn't let him hurt you." He scoffs. "Of course I end up doing the honors myself."

"I would rather have a broken heart than a bullet wound," I reply frankly. "My father does not trust me, and has not done so in a very long time. It would not have taken my father long to take me out of the picture. For good."

"You think so?" he asks quietly.

"I know so."

"Will you ever trust me again?" he pleads, though his voice is steady. I answer him with a mild smile.

"It may make me a fool," I reply, "But I never stopped."

"You mean it?" he asks tentatively, not daring to believe that I may be telling him the truth.

"Absolutely," I reply and his mouth instantly pulls into a smile that would have stopped the world had it been possible. As it is, it only makes my heart beat painfully for a few moments before returning to normal.

We are distracted by each other for a handful of long seconds, leaving us temporarily unaware of our surroundings. We do not hear the distinct hum of an engine quickly approaching, or the sound of gravel crunching under the weight of wheels. The car reaches its stop a few feet away from us, and it is then that I feel Tony's body tense next to me. I watch his hand begin to drift to the holster at his waist, and I survey the visitor in the hopes that Tony will have no need to draw his gun. The car is a dark sedan with tinted windows, a vehicle that almost screams _government. _The door opens and I watch as one distinctly heeled boot steps onto the packed ground. When she stands up and looks at me over sepia-toned sunglasses, I cannot help but smile.

The woman is tall and thin, with very few curves to speak of. Her face is long, which is only accentuated by the dark hair she had chopped off to her chin. Were it not for the easy grin and strong jaw, there would be nothing remotely attractive about this woman. Eyes that are almost black look at me over her colored lenses, which are entirely out of place considering that it is almost nightfall. She comes to a stop a few feet in front of me, and I can almost hear her heart hammering in her chest. Then again, it may be Tony's. It may very well be mine.

It does not take her long to pull a gun from its resting place against the small of her back, aiming it directly between my eyes. She releases the safety in one fluid motion, sending the correct impression that she knows her weapon all too well. Tony responds by jumping from his chair with his own gun, leveling it at the woman's head. He is shouting at her to drop her gun and to identify herself, but his demands fall on deaf ears. The woman's attention is focused solely on me, as mine is on her. Just before I feel that Tony is considering pulling the trigger, I hold up a hand.

"Calm down, Tony," I say, not taking my eyes off the woman. "If Liraz was here to kill me, we would have never seen her coming."

The woman smirks, one corner of her thin lips wrenching themselves up.

"Oh, Ziva," she bemoans me, "You are as arrogant as ever."

**A/N: New addition... but is she good or bad? Review and I'll do my best to let you know. ;)**


	8. Surprises

**Author's Note:**

**Okay, I realize that it's been an outrageous amount of time since I've updated. In my defense, Neuroanatomy homework had me by the throat and I was clinging to life by a thread. All I can do now is hope that you all forgive me, and that you all enjoy this next chapter. =D**

**Chapter Eight**

"**Surprises"**

"Is it really arrogance if I have earned it?" I ask with a sly smile, looking up at deep brown eyes and remembering how they looked when they were caked in too much eye shadow when we were twelve.

"Yes. Yes, I believe it is," Liraz answered and we stare at each other for one tense moment before bursting into laughter. I can feel Tony's tensed body a few inches from mine, and I am left to imagine what he must be thinking now. I look over and notice the gun in his hand, aimed surreptitiously at the woman he thinks is the enemy. He meets my eyes for a second, and I nod my head.

"You can relax, Tony," I inform him carefully in my most even tone. "Liraz is not here to harm us."

"Who is she?" he asks briskly, still refusing to lower his gun.

"A friend," I vaguely explain, because it is the simplest American term for the many years and battles that Liraz and I have shared. When Tony is still apprehensive, I reach out and place my hand on his arm. "_Trust _me."

It is the magic word; he lowers the barrel and sets it down.

"You must be Anthony DiNozzo," Liraz observes casually, looking over her sunglasses at him. Tony nods. "You are a wanted man, Agent DiNozzo. The Deputy Director has ordered that you be found at any and all costs."

"I figured as much," he replies, keeping his eyes trained on her. "I can only assume you're here under his orders."

"Like I said, you must be found," she says, narrowing her eyes. "Fortunately for both of you, my knowledge of Mossad prevents me from believing the evidence against you so whole-heartedly as to turn you over to him."

"Liraz, if I am not mistaken, has been a senior analyst at Mossad for several years now," I explain to Tony, who is looking slightly less wary.

"Not to mention your father's errand girl," she scoffs and I spare a laugh.

"You?" I ask incredulously. "An errand girl?"

"I would really prefer not to talk about it," she says and we both laugh. I remove my legs from the end of the chair. Liraz takes the cue, and sits down. Tony turns in his own seat to face us, leaving his gun just out of reach. For whatever reason, my trust in Liraz seems to be enough for him as well.

"How did you find us?" he asks and I admit that it is a very pertinent question. I was so surprised to see Liraz here that I had not considered how she managed to be so.

"There was a murder two nights ago, in the middle of the desert," she tells us. "Three men were killed, one of which was a contact of your father's."

"Brody," I supply and Tony catches my eye; we both know his killer is sleeping just a few feet away.

"One of his aliases," she confirms. "His real name was William Chinelo, a South African orphan who made a business out of acquiring things for people who desired power."

"That sounds like Brody," I reply solemnly.

"But how did that lead you here?" Tony asks, still perfectly on track.

"The man who brought you here—who, I assume, killed those men—is very clever, but not quite clever enough," she says with a familiar light in her eyes that tells me she will enjoy elaborating on her success. "He turned off the tracking device he knew that Eli David had placed on the car as soon as began to follow you. Unfortunately, he had no idea about the tracking device that _I _placed on the car before he left."

"You've been following us," Tony says flatly, his carefully placed guards back on alert. "Since our arrival?"

"Honestly, Agent DiNozzo," she replies, "Would you have expected any less?"

"That depends," he answers, "What do you plan on doing when you leave here?"

"I have been wondering that myself," I tell her truthfully; Liraz and I have never bothered with secrets, and I have no intention of beginning now.

"Do not be concerned. For the moment, I am a separate entity from the Deputy Director," she says, obviously straining to choose her words carefully. "The knowledge that I've found you will be necessarily forgotten for the time being, until which time I've decided the appropriate plan of action."

"You mean that you are undecided as to my guilt," I supply frankly, and Liraz shrugs her shoulders.

"The evidence against you is neatly packaged and perfectly airtight," she tells me pointedly. "How many cases of treason do you know that are so convenient?" We stare at each other because we both know the answer: not many. None, in fact, save for the ones that my father has fabricated.

"Treason?" Tony interrupts. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Ziva is being tried—and most likely convicted—as a traitor to Israel upon her discovery," she says, her voice low. "Since I am, for the moment, the only one that seems to know better I must operate on my own. When I have the evidence I need to clear Ziva's name, she will be able to return."

"You are here to help me?" I venture. "After so long?"

"Do you doubt my intentions?"

"Not at all," I correct, "I am just confused, as I cannot profess to have been so trusting of you after all this time has passed."

"You were always the cynic," she accuses and I smile. Of course she is right.

"I can corroborate that," Tony adds and I send him a playful glare. He takes a moment to stare at me, to give me that look that always gives me the chills, before turning back to Liraz with a stony expression.

"I need you to leave Israel," Liraz tells us, "The sooner, the better."

"If it was that easy we would have been gone already," Tony says sarcastically. "Unless Mossad discovered the teleporter and didn't tell anyone, we're kind of stuck here for the time being."

"What is a teleporter?"

"It's this thing from Star Trek, where they transport you from one place to another," he explains loosely.

"That is a car, Tony," I say simply and he shakes his head.

"No, not a car. It scatters your molecules or whatever and puts them back together somewhere else."

"Is that not dangerous?" Liraz asks. "Why would Mossad use it?"

"Never mind," he sighs. "I was trying to make a point."

"A ridiculous one," Liraz points out and shakes her head. "It is no matter. Does your leader have a safe house planned for you yet?"

"Somewhere in Europe," I tell her, remaining vague for the time being. "It is simply a matter of getting there, as my father will have every agency on the continent looking for us."

"That is where I believe I can be of some service," she says. "There is a vehicle we use for disposing of our… casualties." She meets my eyes. "Ziva, you will remember it."

"I do."

"It is dark, and covered. If we cross the borders with it, all I have to do is present my Mossad identification to the guards and they are required to allow us through the check points," she continues, "They are not permitted to look inside the vehicle, and will not find you."

"I have to admit, Zee," Tony comments, "That's a pretty good idea."

"I agree," I reply, sparing Liraz a smile. "You have not lost your touch."

"And I never will, if I can help it," she says pointedly and I laugh again. I admit it; I have missed her. Liraz looks up at the house behind us, narrowing her eyes in concentration before looking back down at me.

"You can tell your friend that I am not a threat to him," she says vaguely. "He can come out of the shadows and talk to me himself."

Before I can dispute her observation, I hear footsteps approaching behind me. I turn and find Gibbs glaring silently at Liraz, his cold blue eyes boring into her. A light dusting of stubble across his jaw makes him appear especially fierce, and I swallow despite the fact that it is not I who is under his scrutiny. Beside me, Tony can feel the tension as well. He clears his throat nervously.

"Hey, there, Boss," he says with a laugh that almost sounds like a giggle. "We were going to tell you we had company, but we didn't want to wake you."

"Shut it, DiNozzo."

"Shutting it, Boss."

"What are you doing here?" he asks Liraz, his voice coming out as a threatening growl. "I lost you in Tel Aviv."

"Then you have seriously underestimated me, Agent Gibbs," she replies, seemingly nonchalant despite his attention. "I have done my best not to pay you the same disrespect."

He narrows his eyes but does not move toward the weapon that we all know is at the small of his back.

"Talk."

"I am here to represent a body of intelligence outside of Mossad, and we are very interested in maintaining Ziva's safety," she says, nodding at me, "As well as that of your Agent DiNozzo."

"Why?"

"Eli David is abusing his power," she replies in rapid-fire English that is far better than my own, "Our only concern is removing him from the ability to do so."

"How does that involve my agents?"

"Your agency is powerful, like the rest of your country," she says simply, "I know for a fact that Ziva is more than capable. When the time comes that Eli David is no longer in power, we wish to retain Ziva as one of our agents."

"You're taking her back?" Tony says, his voice suddenly strained, "You're making her stay in Israel?"

Liraz clears her throat. "That is, as of yet, undecided. We have to get you both out of the country, first."

"I have a location set up for them in France," Gibbs says. "The problem is getting them there, where my contact will protect them."

"I believe I have a solution," she replies, "Both your agents will testify as to its efficiency."

He looks down at me.

"It is true, Gibbs," I confirm, "I have every reason to believe that it will be most effective."

Next is Tony's turn.

"She's right, Boss," he says, "It's better than anything we would have been able to pull together."

He turns back to Liraz, unblinking, and Liraz returns his stare. They meet eyes and stay that way for almost a minute, silently calculating the possible motives of the other. Tony and I glance fleetingly at one another, trying to figure out whose side we should be on. Finally Gibbs nods and Liraz offers a bright smile.

"I will return tomorrow morning, before dawn," she informs us. "Be prepared to leave."


	9. Escapades

**Author's Note:**

**This ended up being a bit of a filler chapter, after all. The gang didn't feel like jumping into the middle of the hard stuff right off the bat and I was okay for them to take it easy for a little while. This chapter was getting to be a little lengthy anyway. **

**Next chapter, though, it's going to be something else completely. I promise much more action. =)**

**Thanks, as always, to my best friend and muse: JEM. **

**Chapter Nine**

"**Escapades"**

When the sun finally sets, Gibbs orders us to get some rest before we leave in the morning. He'd spent all afternoon on the phone with Abby and McGee, over a secure line, trying to figure out just who the hell Liraz Reut is. He doesn't trust her, and even though she's the one who's made it possible for us to get the hell out of here. I don't guess I blame him. I'm fairly new to the spy business, and I can't help but notice how unfriendly it is. They could use a campfire or two.

In the end, McGoogle found out that she's exactly who Ziva says she is. She was a Mossad operative partnered with Ziva early on their careers, but she was benched for active duty when an explosion took out her knee. Since that time, she's been an intelligence analyst working directly under the Deputy Director. Ziva knew all of this beforehand, but she has no idea who this other agency could be. In all of her time in Mossad, she never had one clue that someone else could have been pulling all the strings. Normally we'd both be paranoid, but this time I'm grateful that Eli David doesn't have all the power he wants.

I'm thinking of all this as I toss and turn on the floor, doing my best to avoid knocking my still-broken arm. Gibbs has leaned back in the chair on the other side of the room, doing his best to sleep, and Ziva is passed out on the bed above me.

"You are tense."

Okay, maybe not passed out.

For a second I think she's talking to me but Gibbs answers instead, effectively shutting me up.

"You think, David?" he says sarcastically, but we all know that the sarcasm is just a cover for the fact that he's actually worried about us.

"Liraz is a good person, and a good agent," she tells him confidently. "I have never had a reason to suspect her, and I do not believe that now is the time to start."

"A lot's changed since you were here last, Ziva," he warns, "You must have noticed by now."

"I have." She sighs. "But some things, as I am sure you know, do not change. I believe Liraz to be one of those things. She will not betray us."

"I sure hope you're right," Gibbs says and exhales loudly, "Because I really don't feel much like training a new team."

"I never took you for such a sentimentalist," she replied and I can hear the smile in her voice. It dawns on me then that the two of us really are going to miss the rest of the team when we're hiding out in France. Would we be able to contact them at all? Phone calls or e-mails, at least? I had no idea. I guess it wouldn't really be safe, for either party.

"Who said I was?" he asks and they laugh together. I find myself smiling right along, because this kind of familiarity isn't going to last much longer. I consider sitting up, pretending to be waking up all on my own, but Gibbs speaks again and I don't get the chance.

"I need you to take care of yourself, David," he says quietly and I feel Ziva shift nervously in her bed.

"There is no need to worry about me, Gibbs."

"And I need you to take care of DiNozzo."

Normally I would be quick to pipe up and say that I can take care of myself, but Ziva's sad sigh stops me before I can interject. She shifts some more in the bed and I close my eyes barely a second before she leans over the side of the bed, supposedly to see that I'm actually asleep. She leans down and thumps my ear, and I hold in my complaint so I don't give myself away. Satisfied, she turns away and I scoot a little closer in case I miss something important.

"I am worried about him, Gibbs."

I bottle my masculine bravado and listen closer.

"Yeah," he says simply, "Tell me something I don't know."

"He is injured, and is currently in an unforeseen territory. This is never something he considered for himself, whereas I have had to plan for it for many years. In this mission, I am the senior officer. If something… if something happens to me, he will be defenseless," she insists firmly and Gibbs scoffs.

"If his arm is what's bothering you, you've got nothing to worry about," he says. "Tony will never be defenseless. If all else fails, he can just bore them to death with movie trivia."

Ouch.

"This is true," she says, exasperated, and I make a mental note that I may need to tone down my quoting a bit. "But this is not all that has my concern."

"Well?" he asks. "What's on your mind?"

"He still feels so much, about everything that has happened in the last few days, and I do not know how to convince him that it is water under the ridge."

_BRIDGE_, my mind screams but I keep my mouth shut.

"Nothing you ever say to him will get through that thick skull of his, anyway," Gibbs tells her soberly and I mentally huff my disagreement. "Do your best, be his partner, and know that that's all you can do."

"It does not seem enough," she says quietly and suddenly all I want to do is ruffle her hair; sometimes it makes her smile. Tomorrow I'll have to be cheerier and do my best to convince her that I'm completely fine. The fact that Gibbs is keeping us together has done wonders for my mood.

"It'll have to be because starting in the next few days, you're all each other have," he says, his voice starting to rise. "I know you both too well to think you'll take care of yourselves, so I need you to do the best you can to take care of _each other _until I can bring you home."

"What are we going to do without you, Gibbs?" she asks and I hear the tell-tale signs of tears just beyond the surface of her voice. "Tony thinks of you very much like a father and I… I will forever be in your debt, for all the kindness you have given me. What will our lives be without your leadership?"

At this, Gibbs laughs.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll figure something out," he assures her and I hear his chair creak. I can imagine him leaning forward and putting his hand over Ziva's. "For now, get some sleep. The next few days are going to be long and hard, and I need you at your best."

"Yes, Gibbs," she says obediently, obviously trying to compose herself. "You should rest as well. I do not know when you will be safe again."

"Let me worry about that."

"If you insist," she replies with a small chuckle and I hear her shift the light blankets. Finally the two of them are silent, and all I can hear is their steady breathing and the raucous noise of my own thoughts.

I've been laying here an hour when snoring interrupts the silence. I'm about to curse Ziva's name before I realize that it's too low for it to be Ziva snoring. I snicker to myself at the idea of the boss snoring worse than Ziva but the amusement at his expense is short-lived. Soon I'm thinking again. My thoughts take no specific turns, but they remain muddled and indirect. They're not enough to stir me into action but they're just enough to keep me from falling to sleep.

Finally I decide that enough is enough and I roll onto my back, cradling my arm across my chest. A few minutes pass, and just when I'm stepping across the threshold into unconsciousness I feel movement just out of my periphery. A catch a scent of subtle spice in the air and I keep my eyes closed, comforted by Ziva's presence rather than disturbed by that of someone else. I hear her sigh and then I feel her eyes on me. Moments pass in silence, and then I feel her small fingers gently tracing my hairline. My breath catches, and I hope to God she doesn't hear it. I have a feeling it would scare her off, and I want her to continue whatever it is she's doing.

"Oh, Tony," she says softly and the sound is something I memorize immediately, wanting to remember it for the days to come when I don't feel like going any farther. Her fingers trace my brow and I move into her touch, still feigning sleep. I hear her gentle laugh and I start to wonder about the possible repercussions of dragging her down to the floor with me.

"Sleep well, sweet Tony," she whispers, her voice a secret that I intend to keep entirely to myself. She caresses her goodbye across my cheek and then her warmth is gone.

After that, sleep is easy.

---

"You've got to be kidding me."

"You said it yourself, Tony," Ziva says nonchalantly, holding the door for me to climb into the van. "It is the only way."

"No," I insist, keeping my eyes specifically trained away from the two body bags lying on the floor of the massive van. "It's the creepy way."

"It is necessary in this instance," she maintains, "Creepy, as you say, or not."

"No."

"Yes."

"Over my dead body," I say and then flinch. "No pun intended."

"Please?" she asks, slowly pushing out her bottom lip in a way she _knows _is intended to drive me up the wall. _Oh, good form Miss David, _I think to myself with a sly grin_. _But she's not winning that easily.

"Well, in that case…" I pretend to think, "No."

"Tony, you are being a stubborn ass," she tells me, sighing and furrowing her brow in my direction. It's cute, I'm well aware, but there's still no way she's getting me in that bag.

"Listen, Zee-vah, maybe this is fine for you, but I'm really sensitive when it comes to being a corpse. I don't know if you know this but I've almost died, like, a million times now." I clear my throat. "I don't want to do anything that would jinx me. Climbing in a body bag being one of those things."

"Tony…"

"Both of you just shut up!"

We both stop. Liraz's voice is high-pitched and obviously a bit emotional. It takes us both by surprise, our eyes widening as she storms over to us. I take a moment to wonder if she's going to start breathing fire, but then she starts yelling.

"You, DiNozzo," says Liraz, pointing a finger directly in my face, "Will do what you are damn well told. That includes climbing in that vehicle and hiding in the bag until I tell you it's safe. It includes keeping your crap mercifully shut!" Before I can argue, or add that I think she meant to say _trap_, she whirls around on Ziva. "And you! You, I am surprised at. Why do you insist on pacifying him?! Always cajoling him into submission as though he is your personal lap dog! It is enough to drive me insane!"

"Tell me about it," Gibbs says from beside the truck, his gray hair barely visible in the dark. "Wait until they really start going at it."

"I will not stand one more moment of this… this madness!"

"It's only been fifteen minutes," I point out, giving her the best DiNozzo smile I can muster considering that it's a little after four in the morning.

"And yet it feels like two lifetimes," she huffs and storms off, telling Gibbs as she goes, "I cannot begin to imagine what it must be like to deal with those two on a daily basis."

"It'll get easier," he replies, walking up to me with a stern glare, "Won't it, DiNozzo?"

I gulp.

"Yes, boss."

"I thought it might," he adds lazily, turning away and heading back toward the cab of the truck. Liraz is waiting on us now, hands on her hips and tapping her foot obnoxiously against the packed dirt on the ground.

"Hey, how come you get to ride up front?" I call out, genuinely outraged that Gibbs doesn't have to jinx himself by climbing into a body bag. He doesn't need the bad luck either, but it's a matter of fairness. He answers me with a glare and I nod. "Oh, that's right. It's because you're the boss."

"You think?"

"Got it," I say and turn to Ziva. "It's because he's the boss, Zee. That's why he doesn't have to pretend to be a corpse." I scoff. "So not fair. I'm the senior agent. What about me?"

"It will not be so bad, Tony," she tells me and gently pats my arm. I try to take some comfort from the action, but it doesn't work. After a minute she leans down to me and lowers her voice to add, "I will make you a deal. You can stay out of the bag, but you must climb in it when I tell you. No questions."

I raise an eyebrow.

"Are you cheating, Officer David?" I ask playfully and it takes me a minute to understand why she starts to frown.

"I am no longer an officer, Tony," she says sadly. "Now, I am only Ziva."

"That's always been enough for me," I offer quietly, inwardly hoping that Gibbs doesn't catch this small display of affection. My worry is for nothing; he's up in the front, whispering heatedly with Liraz about something. Ziva gives me a slow smile and walks away, climbing into the back of the truck and leaving me behind to grimace and pray under my breath that I don't have a panic attack. It's really hard to look tough when you're breathing into a brown paper bag.


	10. Complications

**Author's Note:**

**As promised! The next chapter. This one got be pretty long, but I didn't think anyone would mind. PLEASE let me know what you think, because I'm afraid interest in this story may have diminished a bit. =/**

**To JEM, the thorn in my side. My love for her will never cease, just like her nagging.**

**Chapter Ten**

"**Complications"**

In six hours we have left Israel behind, crossing the border with no interference. We have suspected that getting out of Israel will be the hardest part, but I have a feeling that the passage into France will be the hard part. Gibbs and Liraz have planned the journey over a span of two weeks, allowing for some aimless drifting to discover any possible tails we may have garnered. Most of the time Gibbs stays up front with Liraz, except when they occasionally pull over to check on me and Tony back here.

Tony seems to have forgotten his aversion to the entire situation, because he talks almost constantly as though he has no concerns pressing upon his mind. I am envious. I remain quiet throughout most of the day, content to listen to the cadence of his voice and the mindless trivia he is rambling on about. Occasionally I add something to the conversation, a word of encouragement here and a derogatory comment there, which serve to keep him talking. My hand remains steadfastly clasped on the revolver at my hip, and with every bump in the road I hold it a little tighter.

Long after night falls Liraz ushers us into a safe house. I do not ask where we are, but I believe I overhear Gibbs saying something about Lebanon. The shack we are in does little to protect us from the wind, and none of us feel very capable of sleep. Gibbs and Liraz are on either side of the one door in the entire structure, their guns in their lap. They fall asleep quickly and I do not blame them; it is they who have had the majority of the workload in this operation. Tony has taken a place against the far wall, and he now motions for me to join him. I offer him a smile and leave my rickety chair, forsaking it for a place at his side.

"Come here often?" he asks playfully, nudging me with his shoulder. I cannot help but reward him with a laugh that seems to give the green in his eyes a light all their own.

We sit in silence for a few moments, and I lean my head against the wall. I am restless and not at all tired. I have done nothing but lay down all day, and now that I would have a chance to move around I am not permitted to do so. Tony senses this, I think, because he holds out his fist to me in an odd fashion. His hand is turned onto the side, his fingers open as though forming the letter "C". His thumb sticks straight up in the air, and he looks at me expectantly.

"What are you doing, Tony?" I ask and he just blinks at me.

"Thumb war."

"I do not know what you mean."

"It's a game," he explains. "We hook our hands together like this-" he demonstrates, clasping our hands together in a way that is unfamiliar to me, "-and you see who can get the other person's thumb down the quickest."

I lift an eyebrow.

"This is an odd game," I comment, looking down at our intertwined fingers. "You do this for fun?"

"Yeah, I beat everyone on the basketball team one year in junior high," he replies off-handedly, shrugging his shoulders. "It's a test of strength and manual dexterity."

"If that is the case," I tell him, "I am afraid you do not stand a chance."

I move quickly, while he is still contemplating his next comment. My hand, though smaller than his, is quick and quite flexible. I hold his thumb down with an iron grip and he squeals like a little girl, earning himself a slap on the arm. I inspect our companions carefully, making sure they were not woken up by his noise. When I turn back to him, he is rubbing his thumb and scowling.

"Do you want to wake them?" I ask incredulously and he only pouts.

"You weren't supposed to make it hurt," he insists. "I call a re-match."

"You are on," I say, feeling a temporary lift of my spirits drag a smile across my face. We are close now, breathing each other's air, and the enthusiastic glint in his eye reminds me of home.

Our hands clasp together once again in preparation while Tony counts down. Our thumbs stand motionless for a second or two, not willing to give up their best defensive strategy. I am plotting my offense when, out of nowhere, Tony's finger comes out and catches my thumb unawares. He drags it down and then captures it with his own thumb, applying just enough pressure to drive home the point that I had been defeated.

"You cannot do that," I whisper harshly. "You said it was thumb war, not whole hand war." I glare at him, narrowing my eyes. "You cheated."

"I don't remember giving rules, Zee-vah," he counters with an arrogant smile on his face. "You can break rules if there aren't any."

"I want a re-match," I sneer and he only grins.

"Best two out of three."

I slap my hand into his, ignoring the sharp sound of flesh striking flesh that radiates throughout the tiny room. His eyes narrow and his bottom lip comes up between his teeth, his chest rumbling when he begins to growl in anticipation. The sound vibrates and passes into me, shocking me with its urgency. I hold his hand a little more violently, doing my best to make him wince only to have him smile threateningly. We are both competitive, and it shows now that we are face-to-face. This is a small battle in comparison to the many we have brought upon ourselves, but that does not mean that I intend to lose.

Tony counts down from four and then it begins. Our thumbs are erect for a few long moments while we stare each other down, trying to decide without speaking who will be the first to surrender their safety net. In the end it is Tony who moves first; rash and impulsive Tony. His thumb juts forward, momentarily distracting me as his forefinger jumps from its position. I weave out of his reach and grip his remaining fingers a little harder, this time drawing a wince. He dutifully brings the absconding finger back into the fold and his mildly repentant glare tells me that he will not be trying that trick again. The stand-off continues. When one of us makes a jab at the other, we jerk out of the way and remain untouched.

"We can always call it a tie," he says innocently.

"Ha!" I reply. "I never surrender."

I lunge at him and he deflects the blow, jerking my hand off-balance in the process. It is his turn to strike next, and it is just as easily avoided. Deciding that I am better off fighting dirty, I use his own technique against him by swiping at him with my finger. He gives a shocked cry and does his best to pull his thumb out of my range, accidentally pulling my arm forward along with it. Unbalanced, I follow my kidnapped appendage and fall directly against him. I realize that I have braced my hands against his chest to break my fall, and that his mouth is flush against my forehead. His heart is beating against my palm, slowly speeding up the longer we touch. I have a feeling that mine is running the same race.

I hold my breath for a second, not daring to move. My eyes shut, savoring his body heat as I wait to feel him push me back and express his desire to resume our little game. I wait, but that moment never comes. Almost imperceptibly I feel his lips brush against my skin. The sensation is fleeting, barely there, but then it returns. His touch is firmer, more confident. With a jolt I realize that he is kissing me, beginning with my brow and traveling further. His touch is gentle and loving when he kisses the bridge of my nose, and gentler still with my still-closed eyes. It feels like years before he tilts my chin up with his hand and kisses me the way I need him to.

His lips are warm and unyielding, fearless, and I am helpless against them. He does not ask my permission, nor does he seem to fear me, and for once I am grateful for this. It is strange, that he can elicit these sounds that he has torn from my lips. He is a stranger to me, forceful and passionate, and yet he is still the man I have known and loved for so long. He takes from me as though he has done so many times before, stopping at nothing until I am clinging to him for dear life. Every brush of his tongue against mine raises a new conviction that we were _made _for this, and I am not one to argue when his touch feels so right. The feeling is surreal, and not one that I have encountered before.

Soon his breathing is ragged, and mine has labored to match. My arms have wrapped around his neck, my body flush against his. Reluctantly I back away, searching his now-darkened eyes for any sign; good or bad. I cannot place his expression; it is one I have not seen on him before. I do not know how to take this, even if he seems unfazed. He does not give me the opportunity to be nervous. He takes another kiss, drawing the breath from my lungs as he moves over me. I shudder as he drags his fingertips down my rib cage, resting his hand against my hip. My heart jumps again as his lips find my jaw. When he finally looks at me, genuinely looks at me, he seems worried. Not just worried… disturbed.

This is it. This is what I have always feared, every time I entertained the idea of Tony and myself becoming something more than just partners. It was this look that made me turn away from his intimate glances and shy away from any real feelings I could have had for him. Suddenly my every doubt seems justified, and every fear seems like a startlingly vivid reality.

"Tony…" I start, my tone mournful. Perhaps there is still time to repair what we have fractured in this moment of weakness.

"Don't," he says, his voice strained. "Don't run."

"What?" I ask, confused. "What do you mean?"

"For the first time in our lives, we're at the same place at the same time," he replies and it sounds almost like a plea. Somehow, he sounds as helpless as I feel. "There's always been something to keep us on opposite sides, but there's not now. You're all I have in the world." He laughs and brushes another kiss against my cheek. I cannot ignore the pounding of my heart.

"You do not mean this, Tony," I reply, and I am sure that I am right. Despite my own conviction, he cannot possibly mean what he is saying.

"Yes, I do."

"You cannot!" I cry, beginning to feel frustrated at my inability to deal with this. "You are afraid Tony, and that is all. You are… imagining these feelings because you are uncertain of your future."

"Maybe," he admits, "But I'm not uncertain about this. I love-"

"Do not say that, Tony!" I say, fisting his shirt in my hand and temporarily forgetting about his broken arm. "Do not say something that you cannot take back. Not to me."

_Do not do this, Tony, _I think to myself. _I do not think I could bear it._

"Stop putting words in my mouth," he grits out, obviously upset. "I know you're afraid, and I know you have your doubts, but this is how I feel. That's not going to change." He steals another kiss that is just long enough to make my lungs heave painfully. I feel a hot jolt seize me, and then his touch is gone. He is staring down at me, his eyes darkened to a deep jade.

"That," he says breathlessly, "Is proof that you feel the same way I do. Whether you admit it or not."

"How is this possible?" I ask, unaware that I had spoken aloud until he laughs.

"Inevitable, remember?" he says and laughs again, pulling me close. "We're just ahead of the curve."

"What do you mean?"

"We didn't wait to get to Paris before giving in," he says with a grin that makes me laugh despite my misgivings. He looks at Gibbs, and maybe we both consider Jenny a moment before he turns back to me with a far graver expression on his features.

"I can't lose you," he says, his grip tightening. "Please, Ziva. Please don't run from me now."

One look is all it takes for me to know that he is absolutely serious.

"I am tired of running," I assure him, ignoring the violent fluttering in my stomach as I cradle his face in my hands. I still have all my doubts, but they can be dealt with later. "Please sleep, Tony. We will see where tomorrow takes us."

"Sleep with me?" he asks and I make a surprised face at him.

"Tony!" I cry incredulously. "Gibbs and Liraz are six feet away!"

"Not that I would object to that either, but that's not what I meant," he says with a smile. "I meant sleep. The thing you do at night when there's nothing better to do."

"Just sleep?" I ask. "That is all?"

"It's all I've thought about for days," he confesses and I can feel color rush into my face.

"Then that is what we will do," I say and climb off his lap, sitting aside as he lies back and motions for me to join him. I avoid his left arm and lay my head on his chest, finding it incredibly easy to be intimate with him without being… _intimate_. I hardly realize it when our hands meet and intertwine, his larger hand dwarfing mine. He kisses the top of my head occasionally, making me smile. I am far too anxious now to sleep, but as I feel Tony beginning to calm I look at our joined hands and laugh.

"What's so funny?" he asks sleepily.

"I won."

"What?" he asks, lifting his head up from the floor. It takes him a moment, but he finally notices our hands and the fact that my thumb has effectively trapped his.

He laughs.

"Who cares?" he replies, shrugging his shoulders and letting his head fall back to the floor. "My prize is better."

I smile and try to enjoy the moment for what it is, only to find myself unable to do so. My fears persevere, and I am left to consider them for most of the night before finally succumbing to sleep.

---

Days pass in a blur, sometimes calmly and others on edge. Tony and I have perfected the routine of climbing into the burlap bags in a matter of seconds and zipping them up just in time to be inspected briefly and shut into darkness once again. Despite Liraz's conviction that the vehicle would prevent suspicion, it only seems to have raised more. Still, every night she insists that we are exactly where we need to be. I cannot help it; I suspect her. Despite Gibbs' trust—and my own long history with her—I cannot understand her motives. There is no other agency in Israel than Mossad, and I find it hard to believe that one could be orchestrating all our lives. It is too coincidental, and too like my father to win my trust with a long-lost friend and have her kill me. These thoughts never leave the sanctuary of my mind. I do not share them, even with Tony.

The first leg of our journey ends in Istanbul, in the early morning. We abandon the vehicle in the darkest alley we can find and then we are on foot, doing our best to blend into the crowd surging around us even at this early hour. Liraz and Gibbs inform us that we are meeting our next contact soon, and they say little else. Tony and I follow, saying nothing. I ignore my own instincts; the so-called gut feeling that something is wrong. It permeates my every thought, but I do not let it overtake me. I look over at Tony, and he seems unconcerned with our direction. If he has thoughts that mirror mine, they do not show.

We take temporary refuge in a hotel. Liraz has made the arrangements, and does not choose to keep us informed. The hotel is upscale and full of Americans, which makes it a suitable, however transient, sanctuary. She guides us to the elevator and presses the button for the eighth floor. We ride in silence, and I once again experience disbelief at the entire situation. I realize how out of place we must look, in dirty and rumpled clothing and greasy hair. We are on the run, from a very powerful force, and our lives are depending on the silence of our steps. Suddenly the idea of being in an elegant hotel in the early morning is laughable.

Liraz keys us into the room and I take a deep breath, doing my best to memorize the feeling of the cool, clean air and freshly washed sheets. Gibbs takes a seat on the sofa, immediately closing his eyes, and Liraz takes up watch at the large bay windows, eyeing the city below us. Tony takes his time looking around and I stand exactly where I started, waiting for the trap to spring. It doesn't, and yet I jump when Tony cries in surprise from the bedroom. Startled, I run in only to find that he is expressing shock at finding clothing in the closet. Honestly, I am pleased as well. We have been wearing the same clothes for days.

"Oh, thank God," he whispers reverently and pulls out a slate-gray business suit. It looks tailored, and I bottle my temporary disbelief at Liraz being that well connected without any prior knowledge of him. "It's a knock-off, but I'll take what I can get at this point. I don't suppose… A-ha! Someone up there really does love me."

He leans over, and picks up a pair of brand new loafers from the floor of the closet.

"There's something for you in here, too," he says, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. I narrow my eyes at him. "Someone has to be a trophy wife."

"You cannot be serious," I insist, mortified.

"Oh, I most definitely am," he says, obviously pleased. He pulls out a skimpy swatch of black fabric on a cloth hanger. Another hanger holds a white blazer, but the point is clear. I am to be Tony's… accessory.

"What is this?" I cry, taking the hangers and marching back into the foyer. Liraz is still at the window, and Gibbs has stretched out across the couch.

"What did I tell you?" she asks him with a self-satisfied smile. "I knew this would happen."

"This is completely inappropriate," I say holding it up for inspection. I do my best to ignore Gibbs' half-smile from the corner of my eye.

"What's the matter, Ziva?" Liraz asks me. "Afraid of showing a little skin?"

"Very funny," I reply, "But you know perfectly well that this is not a very wise choice in clothing. Where will I keep my gun? How will I run, if it comes to that?"

"The plan is that it won't," she answers, which is not an answer at all. "If it concerns you so much, Ziva, do not wear it. Keep looking like you do now, like a stowaway or a refugee. I can guarantee that you will stick out like a sore thumb compared to everyone else here."

I set my jaw. Of course she is right.

"Oooh," Tony says from behind me. "Liraz one, Ziva none."

"Quiet," I say, moving past him. "I am taking a shower."

"Can I join?"

"Try it, and I will kill you," I say without looking at him.

---

Three hours later, we are all dressed and it is approaching noon. I have procured makeup and applied it, effectively masking the dark circles under my eyes. My hair is loose and falls in waves around my shoulders. The dress I am wearing is tight enough to conceal the weight I have lost over the last two weeks, and I feel awkward enough for color to constantly flood my face when someone looks at me. I have worn costumes before, they have been required on many of my operations, but this one feels more awkward than its predecessors. Perhaps it is because most of the attention I am attracting is from Tony, who looks like an affluent American businessman on holiday with his mistress.

Liraz hands us two things as we prepare to leave the hotel. Mine is a large red handbag that contains a 9mm and several spare magazines as well as extensive documentation on my identity. Passport included. Tony's is a leather briefcase that, I assume, contains similar items. Gibbs and Liraz go down and arrange for a rental car to transport us wherever we are going, and Tony and I stay in the hotel room. I wait for a few minutes to be sure that they are well out of hearing range before turning to him and nodding at his case.

"Check your ammunition, and your slide and chamber," I instruct quietly and he gives me a confused look.

"What? Why?"

"Please, Tony. Just do it."

"Okay, then," he says and does as he is asked. After satisfying my suspicions—I inspected my own weapon in the bathroom, a few minutes before—he closes the briefcase and gives me a quizzical look. "You don't trust her."

"Liraz?" I ask, feigning surprise. "Of course I do."

"Why?" he asks, ignoring my denial. "When she's doing so much to help us?"

"I am only paranoid, Tony," I say, sighing. "After Brody's betrayal, I cannot afford to be so careless with my trust. I do not mean to imply that she is untrustworthy."

"Gibbs trusts her."

"I know, and that is more than enough for me," I assure him, but the words are empty. My gut is acting up again, warning of danger to come. That does not mean that I am telling Tony, because I do not want to worry him needlessly.

Before he can argue further, Gibbs returns to tell us that the car has arrived.

Liraz drives us to a small café a few blocks away that caters to mostly American clients. We are seated in an outdoor veranda that is already packed with people. I order our drinks—I am the only one in the group who can speak Turkish—and the waiter gives me an appreciative glance before leaving us. Gibbs and Liraz seem totally calm, lounging in their chairs and admiring the busy street next to us. Even Tony seems to have relaxed, sipping the water in his glass. Already the day has heated up, and sweat forms along the line of his brow. I sit in my seat, restless, waiting for something that does not look like it will appear any time soon. Within minutes the waiter reappears with drinks, we order lunch, and then we are left to wait once again.

None of us try to make empty conversation. Nerves are taut, and we do not want to aggravate them further. I am content with silence until Liraz reaches for her bag and pulls something out of it. At that time Tony chokes and I jump, startled, wondering what has gotten into him. Wordlessly, he points to the item in Liraz's hands. My jaw falls as I take in the bright red book cover and all-too-familiar lettering.

"'Deep Six'," I read aloud, trying to keep the emotion out of my voice.

"Yes, it is," Liraz answers absently. "I am enjoying it quite a bit. I needed to practice my English, and I thought a more pleasurable way of doing that would be to read an American bestseller. Have you read it?"

"Yes," I answer stoically. "I have."

"Thom E. Gemcity has quite a way with words, does he not?" she asks and I hear Tony stifle a scoff beside me. "His vocabulary is so bold and colorful. The characters are quite captivating."

This time Tony does scoff, loudly, and I kick him under the table. He squeals, and this time I realize there will be no covering my actions. Liraz gives us a confused looks, and then turns to Gibbs for a translation of our antics. Gibbs lowers his voice when addressing her.

"A member of our team wrote the book," he explains simply. "Thom E. Gemcity is his penname."

"I'm afraid I don't understand," she says, her brow furrowing.

"I can't believe you're reading McGeek's book," Tony says under his breath, shaking his head.

"I'm sorry?"

"The book was written by a friend of ours, back in America," I elaborate. "He is a fellow NCIS agent who is an author in his personal time."

"You cannot be serious. You're joking, yes?" she asks and then laughs at our grave silence. "Ha! That leads me to believe that you, Gibbs, are the fearless leader who drinks bourbon from his coffee cup. How fascinating. I suppose that means that you, Tony, are the infamous playboy Tommy. I should have guessed. And, Ziva," she raptures, sighing, "You are the mysterious and deeply sensuous Mossad officer Lisa. What fascinating characters he has turned you both into."

"We've been trying to forget, thanks," Tony says bluntly.

Lunch arrives immediately after and we are spared any further discussion of McGee's book. I can still see Liraz's amused smile, but she thankfully keeps her thoughts to herself. We eat in silence, and I translate our needs to the waiter as he comes to check on us. To any onlooker, it would have been an ordinary lunch between American tourists. Istanbul is a beautiful city, and it is flourishing as the days wears on. Unfortunately, instead of being at peace with my surroundings they only upset me further. Rather than comforting, I find them vast and unsettling.

"Please excuse me," I say, standing from the table. "I must find the ladies' room."

"Tony, please accompany her," Liraz says without looking up from her plate.

"I am sure I can find it without his assistance, thank you."

"I would prefer that neither of you go anywhere alone for the time being," she says, this time more forcefully. I want to object, but Gibbs interrupts me.

"Both of you go. Now."

Tony stands like the good soldier I know him to be, and I nod my forced assent. He takes his place just behind me and we walk back into the main edifice of the restaurant. When we cross the threshold of the large French doors, Tony leans into me and whispers in my ear.

"Is it me or was that really weird?"

"It is not just you," I reply. "Something is happening, and I have no clue what that might be."

Just then, as though my words had somehow pulled the trigger, a gunshot erupted through the din of the dining room. We both stop short and I turn, reaching into my handbag to grab the gun I have hidden there. Before I can walk back out onto the veranda, Tony grabs me by wrapping his arm around my waist and pulls me to the side of the doors before we can be seen. He places his finger over his lips as a sign to stay quiet, and I follow his lead. The people in the dining room are rushing to get out around us, but we stay out of the way and listen as best as we can. I hear shouting, most of it in Hebrew, and one word makes my breath catch.

"_Mossad!_"

I hear them ordering Liraz to back away from the table, and to lie flat on the ground. I do not recognize the voices themselves, and for that I am grateful. Tony is keeping me close, and I translate for him as I listen. He is tense, and the reaction is completely deserved. For all intents and purposes, we are most likely trapped in this building. They will have us all in custody within minutes, and then we will be shipped back to Israel to die.

Testing my luck, I peek around the corner to get a better look at the scene. With a jolt I realize that Gibbs is not sitting at the table, nor has he been forced to the ground. He is nowhere to be seen. I murmur a fervent prayer that he has not already been dragged away, but I do not believe it to be true. Four men have surrounded Liraz and their combined shouting makes it hard for me to understand what they are telling her. The one thing I can hear with absolute clarity is Liraz's tear-filled voice, trying to explain her presence. In all the years that I have known her, I have never heard her so full of despair. It tears my heart to shreds, and I am filled with guilt at having suspected of her of anything.

"They are accusing her of treason," I explain to Tony, trying to keep the tears out of my voice. "They want to bring her back to Tel Aviv, where my father will-"

_Bang!_

The sound rips the air between us apart, and suddenly it feels as though I am drowning. I cannot breathe, and in my panic I try to run out onto the veranda. Tony catches me, grunting with pain as he pulls me back with his still-injured arm, murmuring things that I cannot understand into my ear. Tears burn my eyes and roll onto my cheeks. Finally Tony's voice cuts into the roar of blood in my ears and spurs me into action.

"She wouldn't want us to stay here, Zee," he says and I stop struggling against him.

I can now hear sirens approaching, but I have the absent thought that it will not matter. The police will arrive and find a body. Mossad will leave no trace that they were ever here. Upon strenuous questioning, the restaurant will report that her companions were nowhere to be found and that they had been surly people who looked as though they were up to no good. Liraz's body will be shipped back to Israel. Just like that, a murder charge will be added to the list of offenses against us. When we are caught, which may only be minutes from now, we will be executed and the country will rejoice that such dangerous traitors were found and stopped.

We cannot win.

"Come on," Tony whispers urgently in my ear. "We need to go."

Swallowing my grief for the moment, I nod my head and look around. We are alone in the large dining room, which has been wrecked in the course of the riot. The rest of the patrons have escaped the building. The kitchen is located to the back of the building, and this is where we run now. I draw my gun to aim it as I go, pushing the kitchen door open ahead of me and quickly scanning the room for any Mossad that may have been waiting here. None are present. I wave Tony in and I lead on, keeping my gun drawn. I spot a door near the back that should lead to an alley, and I head toward it with only our freedom in mind. Before I can reach it, someone jumps out of the shadows and falls to his knees when my gun turns to face him.

"No shoot!" he cries in horrible English. On closer inspection, it is the waiter that had been serving us lunch only a few minutes before. He must have come into the kitchen to hide.

"I will not hurt you," I tell him in Turkish, helping him to his feet. "Can you tell us how to get out of here?"

"You are supposed to follow me," he replies adamantly, and I shake my head.

"Just tell us how to get out."

"You are supposed to follow me!" he maintains, his dark features flushing with color. "A Mr. Gibbs told me to find you and tell you to follow me!"

"Gibbs?" Tony asks nervously. "Did he just say Gibbs?"

"What do you know about Gibbs?" I ask, probably angrier than I should be at this innocent bystander. "What did Gibbs tell you?!"

"That you are supposed to follow me! That is all!" he cries, his hands still in the air.

"Then go," I tell him and raise my gun again. "Walk ten feet ahead of us, and if you make one move that I do not like I will shoot you where you stand."

**A/N: I love ending on cool lines like that. lol Please review and tell me what you think! =D**


	11. Friends

**Author's Note:**

**Again, apologies. Almost three months without an update is inexcusable. I've been having writer's block like the world has never seen, and there's a story coming out soon--I hope--that deals with why exactly I was blocked. I have a feeling that you all will sympathize. It's going to be authored by the marvelous writer cemeteriesoflondon, if she still feels like it. ;) **

**(For any of you who haven't read her stuff, please go do so now. Well, after reading and hopefully reviewing this chapter. She's outstanding, and exactly what Tiva lovers need right now.)**

**Without further adieu, here it is.**

**Chapter Eleven**

"**Friends"**

**_One Week Before_**

"Well?"

"What?" McGee asks me before zeroing in on the restaurant bill tucked discreetly away in a black binder that is exactly equidistant from each of our hands. He narrows his eyes at me and I stare right back.

"Timmy…"

"Abby!" he groaned, "I paid last time."

"I beg to differ," I challenge, crossing my arms. "Yesterday we had this same argument, and we decided to introduce a little anarchy by flipping a coin. Remember that?"

"I do remember that. I lost," he pouts, glaring at me in a way I'm sure he thinks is threatening.

"But I provided the coin."

"This is ridiculous," he mutters under his breath, reaching for his wallet as dramatically as humanly possible to drive home the point that I'm ripping him off. He flicks a fifty dollar bill on the table like it's a vital organ or his mother. I grin sweetly, and he glares.

Honestly, I could care less how frustrated he gets at me. If I wasn't giving him a hard time, both our minds would be elsewhere. Instead of debating over lunch, we would be losing it over the fact that it's been weeks since we've heard from our fearless leader. Gibbs is AWOL, despite the fact that Vance returned a week ago—without Tony and Ziva. No one is telling us much of anything, but rumors are flying faster than the speed of light around NCIS. Needless to say, that's pretty fast. I decked one agent who uttered aloud the whispers that had been spreading for days. They're all saying that Tony and Ziva are traitors. Of course it's ridiculous, but the information keeps getting passed around no matter how many black eyes I give out.

Apparently they were selling secrets to Al Qaida about military outposts in both countries. They have photos of Tony and Ziva's covert meetings, and they have the fact that they both disappeared from Tel Aviv weeks ago with no word as to their whereabouts. Apparently Rivkin found out what they were doing and tried to stop them, and that's why Tony killed him. It's ridiculous! The newest little tidbit of news is that Vance mentioned three murders that were connected to their escape. When the men died of multiple gunshot wounds, the assumption is that Tony and Ziva were covering their tracks.

"You got quiet," McGee points out needlessly as we leave the café behind and head for his car. He opens the door for me—always the gentlemen—but I can't bring myself to answer just yet. I fold myself inside the car and he closes the door, walking around to the driver's side to climb in. He studies my face a little longer and then he grimaces before reaching over to grab my hand. "None of it's true, Abby. You have to believe that."

"Of course I do," I say sharply and my attitude shows when he winces at the sudden rise in volume. Oops. "Sorry… of course I know they're innocent. I can't believe everyone's so willing to turn on them because of speculation that's circumstantial at best." I turn in my seat to face him fully, intend on my making my point and making it well. "Everyone knows that Tony and Ziva are friends—of course they see each other outside of work. And Rivkin was the one racking up the bodies in LA! Not Tony or Ziva, oh no. And why would Ziva blow up her own apartment? Trick question, McGee! She wouldn't!"

"I know, Abs."

"And you know what else, Timmy?! You know what I heard the other day when a couple of goons at the snack machine thought I wasn't listening?!"

"What?"

"They think Gibbs is missing because-" my voice breaks and my eyes start burning, "-because they killed him. They're all saying that he tried to stop them, and they killed him and got rid of the body somewhere in the desert where no one will ever find it."

That idea does it. Suddenly I'm crying harder than I have since Kate died, hanging my head in despair. I feel McGee's arms surround me and pull me closer to him, and they're more a comfort in that moment than he'll ever know. He gives me a kiss on the top of my head but that really only makes it worse, because I know he feels the same way and he's spending all his time comforting me instead of dealing with his own feelings. He deals with everything that I do, maybe more because he's out with everyone when I'm usually locked in my lab.

He sees most of the stares, and he hears most of the whispers. He's the focus of most of the suspicion, being the only member of our team left in the squad room. McGee wouldn't ever tell me in a million years, but he knows what they all think of him. The idiots we work with think he's a traitor, too. Most of them think he turned on Tony and Ziva in exchange for immunity from prosecution. Those rotten jerks.

"It's going to be fine, Abs," he promises, his breath caressing the top of my head. "Don't listen to anyone, okay? None of those other guys matter. Only we do."

I sniffle in response before jumping at the sudden vibration on my hip. In the process of jumping like a scared rabbit, my head hits McGee's jaw and he gasps in pain when his teeth clack together. I start to apologize like the idiot I seem to be lately, but the caller ID on my screen is holding my attention. It says the number's blocked. Who would have my cell number and block theirs so I wouldn't know who was calling?

"Hello?" I answer unsurely, going against my better judgment. After all that nonsense with Michael it's hard to be comfortable with unknown phone calls.

"There's my girl."

Every ounce of air in my lungs whooshes out of me in half a second, and I'm finding it really hard to concentrate when the voice on the other end of the line sounds like Gibbs. How dare they play such a cruel prank on me? I ramble incoherently for a few minutes, much to my dismay. Nothing I say even remotely resembles the English language, which is unfortunate. If ever I needed proper channels of communication, this is it. Finally McGee gets fed up with my nonsense and grabs the phone from my hand and answers it himself.

"This is Special Agent Timothy McGee. Who's this?"

"Who do you think, Elf Lord?"

"Boss?"

"Something like that," I hear him answer gruffly and I spare a watery laugh. I _knew _Gibbs was fine. He had to be—he's invincible.

"Boss, where are you?" McGee starts in immediately, his supercomputer of a brain flipping on like a light. "Vance got back a week ago, and won't tell us what's going on."

"Then he's done the right thing," he replies, shocking us both into temporary silence. "Now listen, you two. I need you to get me back to D.C."

My voice has still failed me for the moment, so I'll let Tim do all the talking. Despite my sudden speechless state, I don't think I've ever been happier to hear Gibbs' voice. In the back of my head somewhere, I'm thankful for McGee being the level-headed one in all this mess. There are times I really don't know what I would do without him.

"How soon?" McGee asks and I nod my approval of the question.

"A week from today."

"From where?"

"Istanbul," he replies, "Or as close as you can get to it."

"Turkey?" McGee asks incredulously. "What are you doing in Turkey?"

"The fewer questions the better, McGee," he says, "For the both of us."

"Right."

"Can you do that?"

I grin.

"Absolutely," I call out so he'll hear me. "Do you want first class or coach?"

---

**_Present Time_**

Ziva's in full soldier mode, and I'm scared out of my mind. She's got her gun trained squarely at the back of the waiter's head, and the little whimpering sounds he's making tells me with little doubt that he's fully aware of the situation he's in. I want to tell her to calm down a bit and take it easy on the poor guy, but something tells me she's not in the mood for mercy. My head is still ringing with gunshots, and I know how loud they must still be in her ears. Maybe Ziva doesn't realize it yet, but she's mourning the loss of a friend.

He leads out of the kitchen and through a hallway surrounded by boxes. Storage, I think absently as we move. I stay behind Ziva, keeping just out of her blind spot so she doesn't feel compelled to put a round in me by mistake. It takes a little while, but finally the light of day pours into the dark space when the waiter forces the heavy back door open. I squint for a minute but Ziva remains completely steady, her eyes glued to her target. Sometimes it terrifies me just how intense she can be.

We end up in an alley that runs along the back of the restaurant. It's probably for deliveries, because it's just wide enough for a van to pass through. The smell of rotting vegetables reaches my nose, alerting me to the presence of dumpsters somewhere nearby. I don't exactly know why, but my brain is constantly taking notes about the area surrounding us. For a moment I wonder if Ziva's rubbing off on me after all. The thought is lost, though, when we notice a car at the far end of the alley. It's idling, the exhaust sending white smoke up into the air around it. I can just make out the dark silhouette of someone inside.

Ziva rattles something off in Turkish, and receives a reply that makes her speed up her steps. I follow, trying to keep up, wanting to ask for a translation. I don't for a second think that she's going to offer one up, and I see why when the car door opens and two figures step out. One is in a long black dress that takes away all shape from the body, and the other has a cap of bright silver hair. Ziva and I come to the same conclusion at the same time, and she reaches forward to grab our escort's arm and twist it behind his back. He sucks in a breath—probably in pain, if I had to guess—she whispers something menacingly in his ear and he nods fervently. After another quick twist upward, she releases his arm and he takes off running in the opposite direction.

"We really should have tipped him," I comment dryly, trying to be funny, but Ziva doesn't go for it. She ignores me completely, and moves a little faster until we finally stand toe-to-toe with Gibbs.

He looks as calm and unaffected as he usually does, which I guess could be of some comfort. Next to him stands a tiny little thing of a woman, with long hay-colored hair and laugh lines around her mouth and eyes. She faces me with a kind smile and it dawns on me that the black dress hiding her figure isn't a dress, it's a habit. She's a nun. The Catholic in me instantly shifts humbly in her presence, bowing my head in deference.

"What is going on?" Ziva asks, cutting quickly to the chase. She's good at that, I've noticed.

"The plan," he replies and turns to his companion. "She's going to take you from here."

"Who are you?" Ziva asks, narrowing her eyes in suspicion at the woman who's to be our savior for the time being. My eyes widen and I want to reprimand her for speaking to a nun like that. To her credit, the woman doesn't seem to be at all surprised by her ward's lack of manners. If anything, she's calmer.

"My name is Mary," she answers simply, in a bold voice that reminds me of Bostonians with money. "It's a pleasure to meet you both."

"She's fine, David," Gibbs says, leaving no room for doubt. Ziva examines her for a moment longer, but finally nods her head in quiescence. She flicks the safety on her revolver, and I'm pretty sure this is the closest to an olive branch we're getting from her. For a while, anyway.

"Get in," he orders, "Go."

We move to do as we're told, but before climbing in the back of the tiny car we realize that Gibbs isn't following. That can't possibly be in the plan.

"Boss?" I ask carefully. "You're not coming?"

"What did you expect, DiNozzo?" he asks pointedly, making me cringe. "I can't shadow you two forever."

"I know that boss," I reply, "But how are you going to get out? We think Liraz…"

"Don't worry about her."

"And you?" Ziva asks breathlessly, struck by what exactly this means.

"I'll be home by this time tomorrow," he promises and we both wonder how that's possible. He senses the question, and taps the phone we know he keeps in his chest pocket. It's an answer, if an incomplete one. We both want to question him further, but this isn't the place. The block has to be crawling with Mossad by now and we're all running out of time. Fast.

"Go," he insists, and I don't have what it takes to argue with the man. Ziva's hand squeezing my arm is reinforcing the thought that we have to get the hell out of here before they figure out that they're missing three people in the headcount.

Gibbs sees our submission, and knows it's time to go. He doesn't offer hugs or handshakes, not that either of us really expected him to. He doesn't extend a thoughtful farewell, or even a well-meaning threat. Instead he does his usual disappearing act; one minute he's there, scowling in a way that's become increasingly familiar. The next, we're watching him turn a corner and fall out of sight. We watch for a moment before our guardian's voice jerks me out of my reverie.

"We need to go, Anthony," she says gently, opening the door for us to get in. "It will do us no good to sit here and focus on the negative. We need to ensure that there's a future to look forward to."

"She is right, Tony," Ziva adds, her voice quiet and deathly still. I nod absently, watching Mary climb behind the driver's seat and Ziva slide into the back seat. I stare after Gibbs, praying for all I'm worth that he gets home safe. Finally I climb inside and settle into my place beside Ziva. I close my eyes and lean back on the seat, thinking.

The next thing I know, we're speeding out of Istanbul and Ziva is clutching my hand like she can't let go.


	12. Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

**Surprise! An update so soon? No, surely not! But it is. I was so stoked to hear from you all again after such a long time that I just sat down and wrote it almost in one sitting. I would have posted it yesterday, but my editor took her sweet time getting back to me and then the site wouldn't let me download the file. **

**C'est la vie. It's French for something. ;)**

**Pt. II: Paris**

**Chapter Twelve**

"**Beginnings" **

It has been almost a month when we reach Paris.

It is still dark, before dawn, when we step off the bus and into the damp air. Lamps burn brightly along the streets surrounding us, searing our tired eyes with their light. It was a lifetime ago, it seems, that Tony and I were last in such a large city. Until now our lives have been spent in the dim safety of convents and cathedrals between here and Turkey. We have reached our destination at least, thanks to the kindness of strangers who could not have known less about us.

"God, it's humid."

They are the first words to leave Tony's mouth in several hours, and I find myself laughing. The sound is more natural now, after we have had time to acclimate to our situation. The people with whom we entrusted our lives were kind and generous with us, and we have not seen or heard from Mossad since we were snuck out of Istanbul. Since then, things have calmed down. We have reached a tenuous peace with our lives, and neither of us grasp too hard for fear it will fracture.

We grab our luggage—one worn suitcase apiece, donated to us by our keepers—and step up to the curb, away from the path of the bus. People fan out slowly, either walking to their destinations or climbing into taxis and other cars to take them to their desired location. I keep a silent vigil, watching each of them carefully for any unwarranted attention to Tony and myself. No one watches us for more than a second or two before going back to their tasks. After a few minutes, only one man is left. An odor of gin permeates the air around him, and his fair hair has grown into an unkempt beard. The man was not a passenger on our bus, only what looks like a homeless citizen finding somewhere to lay his head for the night.

Tony examines the man for a quick second before he dismisses him as scenery and stretches his tired limbs. He yawns and I find myself struggling not to mimic his actions; I am just as exhausted, but there will be a time for rest later. Unless I find myself mistaken, he and I will be here for some time.

"Well, I'm beat," Tony announces. "Another hour on that bus and I would have thrown myself out the window."

"This is when it is helpful to own a book."

"That would have been worse," he swears, tugging on the lobe of his ear. It is a nervous habit he has developed recently. "So is this guy going to show up or not? We were running late and he still isn't here. Maybe Gibbs bet on the wrong horse."

"I highly doubt that," I say, leaving Tony to stand along when I walk away. I march over to stand in front of the third party in this conversation. The man is still scruffy, probably still drunk, but I no longer have doubts regarding his presence here. "Don't you, Mr. Martin?"

A second passes, maybe two, and then the drunken vagrant sits up straight and flashes me a smile. His teeth are a little too big for his face, but they are perfectly straight and dazzling white. The tiny glint in his eye perfectly communicates his amusement that I discovered his little game.

"How do you do?" he asks in a strong British accent, stretching out his arms along the back of the bench. "Welcome to marvelous _Paris._"

"Zee, you know this guy?"

The question has both of us smirking as Tony drags our suitcases over to where we are standing. My companion is skeptical, and I do not expect less from Tony. In the last long months, suspicion has become our dearest friend. As it is, I am confident in my conclusion. Our contact—a man by the name of Martin, according to Gibbs' limited divulgences of information—glances over Tony once or twice before turning back to me. His grin is still firmly in place, but it no longer seems as genuine.

"I do now," I say, keeping my eyes the man's wide blue ones. "This is Martin, and long-time veteran of Paris. He is MI-6, according to Gibbs."

"Retired," he adds impatiently. "And you two must be the darling John and Maria Russo, just arrived from America."

"That would be us," I reply, assuming that these names belong to our new identities. I did not know that our cover would be a married couple, but I suppose I cannot be surprised. "Where will we be staying?"

"Follow me," he says on a loud exhale, taking an empty glass bottle from his pocket and tossing it into a trash bin a few feet away. He belches—a vulgar sound that I have never appreciated—and shoves his hands in his pockets as he walks a few feet ahead of us.

Tony looks at me warily, and I am sure that I mirror his confusion at this small turn of events. Gibbs' contact, for all intents and purposes, seems to be a homeless drunk. How is this possible? Despite my absolute trust in Gibbs, I am now worried that this may have been a mistake. Men like him—those with fatal, substance-related flaws—fold easily under pressure. Should Mossad find us after all, getting information from him would be all too easy.

Nevertheless, Tony and I grab our bags and follow him.

---

"Wow."

Tony's assessment of our new home is not quite was I was thinking, but it remains a close second. In this case, the sentiment is not entirely positive. It is on the second story of what appears to be a rare bookstore, according to Martin. The Victorian floral wallpaper is faded and peeling in some places, and the pale carpet is worn and stained. The windows are magnificent, however. They are large and survey the city lights beautifully from both the kitchen and the living room. Our minimal furniture includes a long coffee table, a worn leather chair, and a surprisingly new matching leather couch that stretches the length of one wall. It is not luxurious by any means, but it is more than enough.

"Lovely," I assess kindly and Tony glares at me from the corner of his eye. "It is more than suited to our limited needs."

"Terrific," Martin replies sarcastically and hands over a large envelope. Undoubtedly it contains our documentation. "Get a few hours of rest, and you both start work tomorrow. Bright and early, I might add."

"Work?" Tony asks. "We have jobs?"

"Comfortable ones," I add, scanning over the pages. "We are working for the family who owns the apartment, in return for reduced rent every month. I will be working in the store below us with the man's son, and you will be acting as an English tutor for a small girl. The owner's daughter, I believe."

"Me?" he asks incredulously. "You're the linguist, not me. And kids hate me! Why don't you teach her?"

"It is not the arrangement, _John_," I tease gently, fighting a smile. "As you are constantly pointing out, my English is lacking. You are the ideal man for this job."

"I don't speak French."

"Then it is a good thing you are teaching English," I reply with a sweet smile. "Besides, you would be bored with a bookstore in five minutes. I believe the arrangements suit us very well."

"If you two are done, there's something else here for you," Martin interrupts, his tone quite grouchy.

"What is it?" I ask. "Everything we could need is here."

"I believe you've forgotten one very important thing," he says and heads down a narrow hallway. I notice a small bathroom from the corner of my eye and follow him to the doorway at the very end of the hall. He opens it to expose a surprisingly large bedroom with bay windows on either side. Should I have voiced my thoughts, this room really was lovely. It was obvious that it had received the majority of the small apartment's care. It did not seem nearly so shabby.

"That's more like it," Tony marvels. "Look at this bed! It's huge!"

My eyes are trained on the large box sitting on the bed rather than its frame. While Tony throws himself backwards onto the mattress, I climb on the end of it and eye the box. It is addressed to our cover names, John and Maria Russo. It has no return address to speak of, and I do not recognize the handwriting.

"It arrived three weeks ago," Martin informs me. "Gibbs mentioned it was coming."

"Gibbs?" Tony asks, sitting up. "You've talked to him?"

"He's alive and well," Martin promises, "And still fully capable of pissing me off."

"He is quite good at that," I reply with a smile, taking the knife at my hip to the strong tape on the box. By now, Tony has found his interest in the object and sits on the other end of it to see what is inside. With a few strategically-placed lacerations, the box falls apart. Inside is something I had almost forgotten about; it seemed a part of another life now.

"Hey, isn't that-"

"Yes, it is," I confirm, running my hands over the top of the duffel bag. "It is the bag I gave to Brody in return for your safe passage."

A quick pull on the zipper affirms my hopes: all the money is still there, in subtly folded bills. If I am not mistaken, the sum has been substantially added to by whoever sent it. A note catches my eye and I pull it up out of the bag, unfolding the slightly aged piece of paper to discover Liraz's careful script. My thoughts were correct; she had donated funds to the bag. In her letter she promised one hundred and twenty-five thousand euros, for our new lives in France. She hoped it would be enough. The letter was sealed with her love and best hopes for our future.

It strikes me again just how much I will miss her, knowing that she did everything in her power to help us and suffered the greatest consequence for her kindness. I say a silent prayer, wishing her peace.

"Who's it from?"

Tony's voice cuts into my reverie and I find myself smiling.

"Liraz," I reply. "She must have pried the address from Gibbs and sent it before we left Israel."

"Gibbs gave her the address?" Tony asks incredulously. "He must have really trusted her to hand over that kind of information."

"He must have," I agree. Silently I add, _It is a shame I did not. _

"I'm also supposed to give you this," Martin says, handing over another group of envelopes kept together with a rubber band. "They're not really all that important, but Gibbs insisted that you needed them as soon as you were settled."

Tony reaches out and takes this bunch while my eyes drift over Liraz's letter again. His laughter has me looking up, and the brilliant smile on his face makes my chest constrict. It has been far too long since I have seen him so happy.

"What are they?"

"Letters from Abs, Probie, and Gibbs," he says delightedly. "Well, it's only a postcard from Gibbs but the rest are letters from home."

"You are serious?" I ask, secretly thrilled. "I did not expect to be able to contact them here."

"That makes two of us," Tony says, tearing open a letter without any fanfare. It is obvious how much he misses our makeshift family, and in that moment my heart aches for them. It had been far too long since we experienced their comfort.

"Okay, this one's from Abby."

I set Liraz's letter aside and fold my hands in my lap, anxious for the words written by one of our dearest friends. Martin excuses himself and promises to be in contact before gently throwing two sets of keys in our direction. We wait for the door to close behind him before removing the duffle bag from the bed and resting the bundle of letters between us. The words flow between us as we take turns reading them, laughing and fighting back tears at the thought of being so far from those we love. They all wish us health and safety; Abby wants plenty of pictures. McGee warns of a new book being released soon, and begs us not to read it. Of course we will.

When all the letters are finished, only a single postcard remains. It is from Gibbs; a picture of the Eiffel Tower punctuated by a single sentiment.

_Be safe._

"I miss them, Tony," I say softly, running my hands over the thin papers. "More than I would have ever imagined."

He takes my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze.

"Me too," he says with a sad smile.

The next hour is spent investigating our new home. It is surprisingly comfortable, and I do not imagine it will take us long to acclimate. The kitchen has the bare minimum of food, but tomorrow we will have an opportunity to remedy that. The prevailing theme of the small apartment is worn, but functional. The living room has been decorated in faded shades of cream, teal, and chocolate brown, which has proven to be an interesting combination. Beautiful, yes, but not exactly expected. The kitchen is in very simple shades of brown and gold, making it warm and comfortable despite the tarnished counter tops and creaking cabinets. The table is simple dark wood, varnished to look newer and distract from the uneven legs. The bathroom is barely the size of a closet, but its bright white and yellow accents make it appear much bigger.

The bedroom is beautiful. I did not notice before, when my attention was entirely on Liraz and on our letters from home, but on closer inspection I realize that it really is lovely. The floor is dark wood, cool to the touch. The walls have been painted a sultry red to match the linens on the bed, with accents of royal purple and blue appearing every so often throughout the room. The mahogany headboard has a rose vine carved into it, giving it a very particular kind of allure.

"It's something, right?" Tony asks me, noticing the look of awe on my face.

"Yes, it is."

"Someone put a lot of thought into this room," he assesses; correctly, in my opinion. "I wonder who lived here before us."

"I am sure we can ask tomorrow, when we meet our employers," I reply, moving our suitcases to the closet. We can organize our things tomorrow, when we are not so tired. Tony yawns behind me and I hear him slipping out of his jacket. Ignoring the steady thrum of my heart, I listen to him undress and climb into bed. Once, this level of comfort would have been entirely alien to us. It is surprising how much can change.

"Are you coming to bed?"

The words make me think for a few long moments.

"I was thinking of taking the couch," I reply honestly.

"What?" he asks. "Why?"

"It was just a thought," I tell him, sidestepping the issue. The truth is that I am apprehensive about the idea of sharing a bed with him. I have not forgotten our kiss those weeks ago, and it plagues me still. It has not happened again, and I had just started to believe that it was a singular occurrence. Now he wants me to come to bed, and I am unsure of what that means.

Doing my best to hide my apprehension, I slip into an oversized sweatshirt and walk around to the other side of the bed. Tony already has his face pressed into the pillow, sprawled across the better part of the bed. I find myself smiling. The sheets are cool as I slide across them, staying on my side with room to spare. I do not want to assume anything between us, since we are now sharing a life that is mostly against our will. Until the time I am certain of what he wants, I will keep my distance.

"I missed you."

The words catch me just as I am falling to sleep, and I open my eyes to see him watching me. Of course I am confused, since we have hardly been apart for the last month and a half.

"I have not gone anywhere, Tony," I remind him gently, unsure of what he means.

"I think this is the longest we've been in the same room in a long time," he says with a smile. "Those nuns wouldn't let me near you."

This makes me laugh, remembering how they ushered me along if we happened to be in the same hallway.

"They were trying to protect my honor, Tony," I say with mock reverence. "And they know better than anyone how Italian men are."

"They're not wrong," he admits proudly with a suggestive wiggling of his eyebrows. I laugh again. "But I am glad we finally made it, Zee. It doesn't seem so bad with you here."

"We will make do," I assure him, firmly believing this. "I do not know how long we will be here, but I can promise that we will make the best of it until Gibbs can bring us home."

"Yeah," he says, "I know."

I close my eyes again and revel in the slight warmth of his arm as he wraps it around me to pull me closer. I do not know what I want from his embrace, but I enjoy it for what it is. He is offering comfort, and I am willing to take it. I curl against him and let myself embrace sleep as the sun begins to rise over Paris, where everyone else is preparing to begin their day. I feel the warmth from the window and the warmth of Tony's body against mine, and suddenly there is nothing worrying me. Mossad is a world away, with all our troubles. In this precise moment, we are only us. Tony's murmur against my ear makes me smile just before I fall asleep.

"Welcome home, Zee."


	13. Lives

**Author's Note:**

**Wow, I'm updating like crazy these days. It's probably because I've been getting so many wonderful reviews! Please keep them coming, because they're my sunshine. =) I'm always happy to read that more and more people are discovering this story, and I sincerely hope that this chapter doesn't disappoint. I wanted to have a little humor and a little fluff in this one, because I feel like they need it.**

**To JEM, as always.**

**Chapter Thirteen**

"**Lives"**

"John?"

The question permeates through my entire being before reaching my brain to set off the profound confusion. I groan loudly, which I'm sure sounds something like a beast being awoken from its peaceful and highly enjoyable slumber. I'm fairly certain I've only been asleep a few hours, and now someone is asking for John and invading my beauty sleep. I don't really need all that much—DiNozzo genes do just fine on their own—but it doesn't mean I wouldn't appreciate another few hours.

"John?"

Who the hell is John? And why are they asking me about him?

"John, wake up."

Wait.

Wait just a second.

I know that voice.

Ziva?

_Oh!_

I'm John. I remember now.

"What?" I grumble, unwilling as of yet to lift my head off the pillow. Whatever my nagging wife _Maria _has to say to me, she can say it without my utmost attention.

"There is a child in our bed."

"That's good," I say before the words can sink in. "Wait. What?"

This time I feel the comment warrants my attention.

When I pull my head off the pillow and look back at the end of the bed, I see that Ziva is entirely right. There at the end of the bed is a little girl, maybe eight or nine years old, with honey-blonde hair and big blue eyes. She's wearing a bright red parka and black leggings, unwittingly remind me of Little Red Riding Hood. She even has a red beret to match. Maybe it's all the horror movies I've watched in the past few years, but the image scares the hell out of me. She's wearing a bright smile, dimples included, which only serves to creep me out further.

"Who are you?" I ask and she only smiles wider.

Creepy kid.

"My name is Jolie," she answers sweetly. "Like the actress. My favorite movie of hers is Tomb Raider, even though she got the Oscar for the one with Winona Ryder."

"Yeah," I mutter absently, "Yeah, she did."

"And what are you doing here so early in the morning, Jolie?" Ziva asks gently. I'm amazed at how calm she seems despite that fact that we have a juvenile delinquent sitting on our bed like she belongs there. I wonder if she pulled a gun on the girl by mistake.

"Monsieur Russo is supposed to teach me today. I have been waiting all summer for you to arrive and you are finally here. It certainly took you long enough," she answers and my eyes get a little wider. I can't be a teacher, for crying out loud. Normally kids want nothing to do with me.

"Monsieur Russo and I arrived very late last night," she explains while I let my head fall back on the pillow. "If you can go wait downstairs for a few minutes, we will be down shortly."

"We will?"

The question is muffled by the pillow, but she lightly smacks my shoulder anyway. She pulled the punch, obviously. She didn't want the kid thinking we were an abusive couple. The idea has me chuckling a little.

"I will tell Father that you are on your way," she says seriously and I feel the mattress lift up as she climbs off it. I feel a small hand tap my left leg and she tells me, "Do not be late, Monsieur Russo! I couldn't wait another day to start."

I hear little feet charging out of the room, quickly followed by our rickety front door slamming. We must have forgotten to lock it last night before we went to sleep or else the kid wouldn't have been able to get into the apartment at all. The thought makes me nervous; I hadn't realized we'd gotten so careless. The point is moot, however, since she's already barged into our bedroom and started the day with a very annoying _bang_. The very next sound to be heard in the room was Ziva's giddy laughter. It doesn't take a stretch of the imagination to discover why she's so tickled.

"The kid doesn't even sound like she needs help with her English," I grumble half-heartedly.

"Nevertheless, she is greatly anticipating your wise instruction," Ziva says, collapsing back on the bed in a fit of laughter that I haven't heard from her in God only knows how long. "Who would have thought it? Anthony DiNozzo, educator of the future generation."

I open my eyes only to narrow them in her direction.

"For all you know I could be a great teacher," I defend sourly, secretly relishing her happiness. "The best, even. This kid could grow up to bring about world peace because of me."

She only laughs harder.

"Oh, I have no doubt that will be the case," she assures me sarcastically before throwing the covers off her legs and standing up. Her hair is everywhere and her eyes are still heavy with sleep. In the bright sunlight pouring from the window, I don't think I've ever seen her more beautiful. "Come on, get up. I will cook while you shower."

"Cook with what?" I ask. "There's hardly anything in the kitchen."

"I will make do."

"That really seems to be the theme here."

"You could use a little practice in the matter," she teases and heads into the bathroom, leaving me to wake up without her coercion. My eyes adjust to the sunlight and survey our surroundings, and I'm surprised to find how much I enjoy them. I really do like this bedroom. The rest of the apartment needs work, but this room is great. It's warm and welcoming, and feels nothing like the prison cell I was expecting for the last few weeks. Smiling, I roll over a bit and catch the scent of Ziva's hair on the pillow next to me.

Oh, yeah. I could definitely get used to this.

---

"Please forgive her, Monsieur Russo," my new employer tells me animatedly, in heavily accented English, sending accusing glares down at the girl standing dutifully at his side. "I am afraid that Jolie never learned the virtue of patience."

"It's perfectly fine, Monsieur Nouvel," I tell him with a smile. "She was some wake up call."

"Please," he says, offering me his hand, "Call me Henri."

"Henri," I correct, giving my hand for him to shake. His almost dwarfs mine, and I feel the calluses that cover the palm. He's a worker, this one. He's built like a lumberjack and has as booming voice that echoes in the room whenever he speaks. His bright blue eyes stand out from the rest of his tanned face, and it's not hard to see the resemblance there between him and his daughter. The difference is his hair; Jolie has light hair and his is dark with flecks of gray at the temples. He sure doesn't look like a bookkeeper, but I highly doubt I look anything like a teacher.

"Will your wife be joining us?" he asks me and my tired brain takes a second to process the request. _Right, _I think. _Ziva. _

"Maria should be down any minute," I say with a smile. "She was finishing up in the shower when I came down."

"Wonderful," he says, clapping his hands together. "Please, have a seat. I warned Jolie that the two of you may not be able to come down until tomorrow, in light of your trip. She has been waiting quite impatiently for your arrival."

I thank him and follow him to a small table, one of many that line the storefront window. Jolie sticks close by, obviously curious about the stranger who lives upstairs. He offers cappuccino and I accept graciously, having found a distinct lack of caffeine in our kitchen a few minutes earlier. While Henri works in the back, Jolie pulls up a tiny stool and sits next to me. She seems intent on studying me for a little while, until she clears her throat and folds her hands primly in her lap.

"You look like a movie star," she states matter-of-factly.

"Thanks," I reply. "As long as the movie star isn't Boris Karloff, I think I'm flattered."

"No, not Frankenstein. Definitely not Frankenstein. He scares me, and you don't," she says, shaking her head emphatically.

"You know the movie?" I ask, surprised.

"Of course I do. It is a classic," she answers, obviously insulted. She spews something in rapid French before she notices what must be an incredibly blank look on my face. Sighing with the grace of a patient teacher, she pats me on the knee forgivingly. "I meant to say that art imitates life. To know film is to know the world."

I blink at her, and the smile she gets this time is completely genuine.

"You know what, Jolie?"

"What?"

"I think you and I are going to get along just fine," I tell her and playfully flick the beret perched adorably on the top of her head. She glares at me before carefully patting it back in place.

"Not if you insist on destroying my hair," she pouts and I grin. Then, just as quickly as it got there, her frown disappeared. "I'm going to be an actress when I grow up. I'm going to move to Hollywood and there everyone will know my name. Lights, camera, action!" She finishes off the sentiment with a carefully considered pose and I laugh.

"Good goal," I say approvingly.

"My girl will talk all night long if you give her the opportunity," Henri declares as he returns to the room with two cups of pure heaven.

"Her English is good," I observe, much to the delight of the girl next to me. "Not that I'm ungrateful for the position, but I'm not sure why she needs a tutor."

"To keep up her practice," he says casually. "Her school has stopped offering instruction in the language, and I feel that it should be encouraged."

"Understandable."

"I do have a small question, since you bring it up," he says, leaning forward on the table. "Do you mind?"

"No, not at all," I reply easily. "Shoot."

"Martin mentioned that you also speak Spanish," he ventured and I nod. God knows it's been a while since I've used it, but I hope the skill is still there. "If it isn't so much to ask, could you possibly give a few lessons on Spanish? Jolie will be quite accomplished with three languages to speak with people."

"We could do that," I say, nodding and taking another drink of the marvelous coffee in front of me, "If Jolie is up to it, anyway."

"I promise to do my very best," she says solemnly and I smile down at her.

"Then that's what we'll do," I agree. "That's not a terrible idea. Maybe she'd be willing to help me with my French."

"Of course! Can I teach you whatever I want? Will you have homework, too?"

"That depends," I say honestly, "Do I have to do it?"

She frowns. Apparently my laziness has ruined her fun.

"She excels in language of all kinds," Henri says proudly. "It was hard to keep up with her as a child, because she enjoyed hopping back and forth from French to English. I swear it is because she wanted to confuse me."

"She learned English so young?" I ask.

"Their mother was English," he says with a smile, looking somewhere else beyond my left ear. "She left us two years ago. Cancer."

"I'm very sorry."

"When my brother-in-law mentioned needing a place for friends who were coming over from America, I knew it would be a wonderful opportunity for all of us to keep up with the language," he says, taking a long drink from his cup. "My wife was very proud of having a bilingual family. I am afraid that I was the poorest student, but I have improved much in the last years. I can now find my way around my English-speaking customers."

"Your brother-in-law?" I ask, thinking of the surly drunk from the night before, "Martin?"

Henri nods. "Yes. Christine, my late wife, was his sister."

"I didn't see that one coming," I mutter and then correct myself. "I just meant that I didn't see the family resemblance."

"Of course," he says, nodding. He looks like wants to say something else, but the sound of a bell ringing interrupts his thoughts. We both turn to see Ziva enter the room, smiling a little unsurely. Normally she enters a room full of confidence, but this time that trait is lacking. I can't tell if she's acting or not. Maybe that's a sign that she's doing it well.

"I hope I did not interrupt," she says and waves at Jolie, "Hello again."

Jolie gives her a bright smile. "Hello, Madame."

"You must be Maria," Henri says, standing up from his chair. He offers his hand and shakes hers gently, bowing his head a little. "It is such a pleasure to have you here, with my family."

"The pleasure is ours, believe me," she says graciously and accepts a chair when Henri pulls one up to the table. "Oh, thank you. Jolie was quite eager to begin her lessons this morning. I do hope John has not disappointed." She grins sweetly at me and I fight the urge to glare in return. "He is not a morning person, I am afraid. Getting him out of bed in the morning is always an uphill combat."

"Battle," I correct with a sweet smile of my own. "It's uphill _battle_, dear."

Ziva laughs good-naturedly despite my slight prod at her.

"You see?" she asks, setting her purse beside her. "This is why he is the tutor, and not me. I am afraid my grasp on the language leaves something to be desired."

"You are not a native American?" Henri asks.

"No, not I," she replies. "I am Chilean by birth. I moved to America with my parents when I was young."

"I see," Henri replied.

"Do you not have another child?" Ziva asks, sliding my cup of coffee to sit in front of her. She kindly ignores my scowl. "I seem to remember Martin mentioning a son."

"Yes, that is correct," he replies and his smile gets a little bigger. "Armand is eighteen, and still at school. He is attending university this summer, hoping to get ahead. He will be home sometime tonight, after his professors have banned him from their offices."

Ziva laughs. "He is a diligent student, then?"

"Quite focused," his father confirms.

I catch Ziva's eye over her drink and give her a smile that she reflects back at me. Before long, she and Jolie are conversing in French about something that makes both of them giggle. I watch, entranced, while maintaining my conversation with Henri. I forget sometimes how captivating she is. She seems comfortable with these people. I don't know if it's an act or not, but I feel pretty comfortable too. I have no idea how it happened, but we managed to stumble onto a good thing. I briefly consider falling to my knees and crying out in thanks, but that really wouldn't do much for our still fragile reputation here.

"I am sure the two of you have much to do before you are fully settled," Henri says, bringing me out of my thoughts. "If I can be of any assistance, please let me know."

"Actually, there are a few things we need," Ziva says thoughtfully. "Food, I believe is at the top of the list. A few assorted items of that sort. Perhaps clothes." She grins sheepishly. "Our luggage managed to get left in America. I am afraid we are quite without."

"You will have no problem with finding a place to shop here," Henri says and we all laugh. It's true—Paris is one of the best places in the world for fashion, and I'm quite looking forward to some new threads myself.

"If you could point us in the right direction we'd be good to go," I say. "Maria will have no problem taking it from there." Henri offers a conspiratorial wink and Ziva scoffs.

"Your clothing costs far more than mine," she insists.

Henri leans over to whisper in my ear, "That is what they always say, no?"

---

"Maria, darling, I think you're dropping things."

I grin when Ziva whips her head around to glare at me as we head up the stairs that lead to our front door. Despite the very feminine sundress she's wearing, she looks absolutely vicious today. Maybe I should have offered to help; this really seemed funnier when I was in the cab, wondering if I should do it. She has three garment bags on each arm and two bags of groceries balanced on each of her hips. If she's not careful, she's going to fall backwards and then we're both in trouble.

"Perhaps I would not be having such difficulties if you would deem it necessary _help _me," she snarls, nudging the door open with her shoulder. "I do not care to be your pack horse!"

"Mule," I revise, "You're my pack _mule_."

"The sentiment remains the same."

"Honey, you know my arm is still bothering me," I remind her while she stumbles into the kitchen and, while still glaring fiercely at me, she practically throws the bags down on the table. She gives me an indignant huff in response and honestly I couldn't be happier right now. For the first time in months, I feel like us again.

"Your other arm will be next unless you bring in the rest of the bags from the taxi," she sneers, "_Darling_."

"Whatever you say, dear," I say and relish the angry flush in her face. Maybe I enjoy it a little too much, because she starts rummaging for something in one of the bags with an intensity that makes me worry. In light of the other options, I scurry out the door before she decides to start throwing things in my direction.

The cab driver is muttering something in French—I may not know much about the language, but I know when I'm being cursed at—so I hurry it up and transfer the remainder of our things to the sidewalk in front of the store. Our fare is a bit pricey, but I didn't really expect any less when the guy has been carting us around for most of the afternoon. I pay him what we owe plus a little extra for his trouble before sending him on his way. I make a mental note to try out the subway. Our shopping bags are going to take more than a few trips still, but we can just take turns going up and down the stairs.

When the last bag is taken in and the door is closed behind us, the fun begins. We argue over what goes where, and whose bags belong to whom. Hers are red, purple, and blue shopping bags that hold a wealth of casual clothing suited to her simple tastes. Mine are suits in black and silver garment bags. Ziva may have been a little right; mine cost more. In any case, my job is to put away the groceries while she puts away our clothes. There is one garment bag that doesn't belong to me, but I hid it away in the linen closet so she couldn't find it until I wanted her to. More important than clothes, however, are the tiny boxes I've hidden in one of the bottom cabinets. Those will be coming into play fairly soon, when I've chosen the right moment.

When she finishes, she comes and sits at the table to watch me work. I feel her eyes on me as I move, sorting out what I want to cook for dinner tonight. It's my turn, after all. Her glance never waivers, and she doesn't seem at all surprised that I'm aware of it.

"See anything you like?" I ask, arching an eyebrow.

"Not recently."

"Ouch," I mutter under my breath and turn back to what I'm doing before my ego can take any more blows. "Are you still mad about carrying our stuff up here? Because really, Zee, you need to learn to let things go. You'll be miserable your entire life if you don't."

"Or I could just break your other arm and feel much better," she says with a catty smile that I can hear in her voice more than I can see it with my back turned.

"Then you'll be carrying everything for another month and a half," I warn. "You've really got to start thinking this stuff out."

She laughs, and then she lets it go.

It feels like we're living someone else's lives. Someone else is in the kitchen in the early evening, preparing to make dinner. A complete stranger will, in the near future, slide a diamond ring on a beautiful woman's finger and wish that it was real. That same stranger will crawl into bed with said beautiful woman and hold her close, listening to her breathing even out as she falls to sleep without daring to hope for anything more. Someone else will be lying in that bed for hours, wanting more than anything to take a chance on her if she'd let him. Nothing about this life belongs to me, and yet I feel like I've been missing out on it for a long time.

"Do you ever feel blessed, Tony?" Ziva asks me suddenly, her voice surprisingly soft. When I turn around to look at her, she's facing the window and staring into the setting sun.

"These days," I answer honestly, "Every second of every day."


	14. Reminders

**Author's Note:**

**Another quick update. I'm on a roll, guys. **

**To JEM, so that I may one day be able to support her in the manner to which she will become accustomed. ;)**

**Chapter Fourteen**

"**Reminders"**

I wake up with my arm around Ziva's shoulders and the sound of gunshots in my ear. I jump up in a panic, accidentally shoving Ziva away from me and reaching for the gun we keep hidden in our nightstand before realizing that it's not gunshots that woke me up. The sound is incredibly like gunshots, but not quite the same. I listen and the same cadence repeats itself, a little faster this time. I sigh in aggravation and put the gun back in its place.

It's someone at the door. It's not even seven in the morning yet, and someone wants our attention that badly. Maybe I should bring the gun after all.

"I will bet twenty euros that it will be your doting student you find waiting for you," Ziva says sleepily, rolling onto her stomach and curling her arm under the pillow.

"That sounds intense for a ten-year-old," I argue. "Twenty bucks says it's Henri looking for his little bookworm employee. You're on."

"I look forward to my victory."

I slide out of bed and rub my eyes with the heels of my hands while I stumble down the hallway in search of the door. Part of me is wishing that the person knocking would just give up and go away, but I've never been that lucky. I highly doubt it's going to start now. Instead of waiting for that miracle, I take a look through the peephole and find a frightening splash of orange that stands about four feet and five inches off the ground. It's Jolie, dressed in a t-shirt and leggings that make her look like a giant neon pumpkin. Of course this means I owe Ziva money.

"Good morning, Monsieur Russo," she says brightly before I can even open the door all the way, "I trust you slept well."

"Isn't it a bit early for you to be so happy?" I ask sullenly and she only beams at me. "Okay, that's a no. Well, it's early for me to be happy, anyway."

She only stares at me.

"Go wait downstairs for a bit and I'll come get you," I say, attempting to reach a bargain with the girl. "Deal?"

"Deal?" she asks, tilting her head to one side.

"Yeah, deal," I reply. "It's kind of like 'okay.'"

"I see," she says, taking a second to commit the phrase to memory before exclaiming, "Deal!"

"Good girl," I say and watch as she starts down the stairs again. When I'm sure she's gone back into the store below us, I shut the door and groan. My sleeping patterns still haven't evened out, and I still feel like I need at least another three hours of sleep to be worth anything today. It's a shame, really, because I'm supposed to be crafting someone's future in my hands. Or something.

Still fairly annoyed with being woken up so early—really I should be used to it, since Gibbs had us all on such a tight leash—I go into the kitchen and start the coffee maker. Sweet, sweet coffee. I reach down to grab a filter and there, right next to them, are the two suede boxes I hid the night before. Grinning, I pick them up and hold them in my palm. I open my box first, not that there's anything to see. Just a gold band, really; plain and simple. Despite the fact that I've been avoiding this tiny piece of jewelry for most of my adult life, I like the thing. It looks nice. Ziva's ring, though, is the one that has my attention. While she was off searching for the perfect pair of cargo pants, I took half of my allotted shopping money and went to a jeweler to pick out this little beauty.

It's small, granted, but it's got a lot of spunk. It's the traditional engagement ring banked on either side by complementary golden wedding bands, but it doesn't look like the traditional stone. It's got more color in it than a regular diamond, and has a million different shades depending on how the light catches it. It reminds me of her in some odd, highly metaphorical way. Ziva's a million things and a million different women, depending on how the light catches her.

"What are you doing on the floor?"

Her voice interrupts my thoughts and I shrug to myself; now is as good a time as any. I slip the rings out of their boxes and leave the boxes behind, taking out a coffee filter in their place. The rings themselves are tucked into the palm of my hand. I stand up, waving the filter in her face.

"Speak of the devil," I say with as much bravado as possible, hoping to distract her from any ulterior motive. "I'm making coffee. Want some?"

"Yes," she says, eyeing me. "What is the matter with you?"

"Nothing at all," I say, waving the coffee filter in front of her face as I stand up. "It's a beautiful morning in Paris, and I'm going to make coffee."

"Alright then," she says suspiciously and sits down at the table, pulling her legs up under her. "Who was at the door?"

"You know perfectly well who was at the door," I say, narrowing my eyes at her and receiving a conceited smile in return.

"You owe me twenty dollars, I believe."

"How about breakfast?"

"That will suffice," she says as though it pains her and I make an annoyed face. She smiles right through it and commences staring out the window. I've decided in the last few days that early-morning Ziva is my favorite. Don't ask me why, but it's the truth.

"You know, dear, I've been thinking," I start as I pour the coffee grounds into the filter.

"I suppose you want to be congratulated."

I fake laughter and start the coffee, listening to the maker gurgle before turning around and shooting her a grin.

"Well?" she asks. "Please continue."

"Thank you. I was thinking that we should make our living arrangements a little more official," I say and lean down on one knee, holding her ring between my fingers for her to see. Her eyes widen and I laugh, adapting my best melodramatic voice. "I know the world has been against us recently—I do know that your father hates my guts, maybe even wants me dead—but maybe one day things will change and he'll be okay with having me in the family. I really do think we can work through all this if we try. All we need is love, sweet cheeks."

I'm met with silence. Her mouth has opened slightly and I laugh a bit to myself, highly amused that I've managed to render her speechless.

"You complete me," I continue, "You've bewitched me, body and soul."

"Tony…"

"Will you be my wife?" I ask, ignoring the suddenly nervous rolling of my stomach and flashing my best smile. I could probably have added the fact that it's for the sake of our cover, but where's the fun in that? Besides, what I really want is to see her smile back at me.

I hold the ring up a little higher but her eyes stay focused on my face, never moving. I wait a second but she doesn't laugh, and she doesn't offer her hand. Instead she stares like she can see right through me. Something's wrong.

"Zee?"

"What is this?" she asks and it shocks me to see how sad she looks.

"A ham sandwich. What does it look like?"

"A mistake," she replies bluntly, "A very grave one."

"What?" I'm lost. I must have zoned out on part of this conversation. "What do you mean?"

She takes a deep breath before answering me, and my brain is burning rubber trying to figure out what I'm missing here.

"I think we should both remember that none of this is real," she says softly, the music gone from her voice, "Before we start something that we are unable to finish."

My hand drops. She can't be serious. While part of my brain would love nothing more than to pretend that I'm actually proposing, she has to know that right now it isn't what I mean by waving a diamond ring in front of her face. I think.

"Trust me," I finally reply, smile never leaving my face, "I haven't forgotten anything."

"I think you have," she suggests in a small voice that surprises me. "It is easy to do, Tony. I know that from experience. The stress from our escape was almost unbearable, we have said goodbye to our lives as they used to be, and now we are here. We have a home and pleasant life—a pleasant _façade_—that we must maintain. It is easy to forget the ugly and cling to the illusion of something better." She sighs. "But it is only that. An illusion."

"You honestly think that's what I'm doing? You think I'm playing house?" I ask, hoping for an answer that doesn't contradict everything I know to be true about myself. She has to know I wouldn't use her like that. "After knowing me all this time, it's hard to accept that that's what you think of me."

"It is because I know you that I know it to be true," she says, keeping her eyes on mine. "You are a dreamer, Tony, and a romantic. You are capable of more love than anyone I know. That also means that if you play pretend long enough, it becomes real with or without your consent."

"Jeanne."

Her name is like acid on my lips. It always feels that way.

"You forgot then, with her," Ziva whispers, "Just as you are forgetting now, with me." She runs her hand through her hair. "Before, when we were in Lebanon, when we…"

"Kissed, Ziva," I interject. "We kissed."

I leave out the fact that it was the most intense moment of my life.

She meets my eyes. "Yes. We did. You were saying similar things then, when you were scared and uncertain. I believe that you are doing the same thing now, for many of the same reasons."

"You're wrong."

"I do not think so."

"Then you don't know me nearly as well as you think you do," I say angrily, finally letting go of any hope that this would be a happy conversation. "I have to say I'm surprised. Four years is a long time to spend with someone without having one clue what's going on in their head." I lean back against the counter, balling our jewelry in the palm of my hand and crossing my arms over my chest. "The rings were for our cover, Ziva. To the rest of the world we're married and I felt like we should look it. The big corny proposal was just for the added benefit of getting you to laugh. I don't know if you've noticed, but it's rare these days and I've been missing it."

She stares back at me like I'm some puzzle she can't figure out.

"Trust me," I tell her, "I haven't forgotten a single thing about why we're here. It's a little voice in the back of my head, reminding me over and over that one day all this is going to be yanked out from under us. As far as I'm concerned, it's just an added benefit that I get to be as close to you as I'd like to be. One day soon, I'm hoping that gets even closer."

"I did not mean to blame you, Tony," she insists. "None of this is your fault, but this has gone too far now. You do not mean what you are saying. If we were back in Washington, you would not be feeling this way."

This makes me laugh.

"You think I want you because it's convenient?"

She doesn't answer.

"Well, that makes perfect sense. You know, since you're here and all. We're both unattached, so I might as well seduce my closest friend," I seethe, my voice deceptively low despite the sarcasm. "It must be typical of me to stay close to you because I have nothing better to do. And then I'm assuming when we go home you'll mean nothing to me."

Her voice is almost inaudible when she replies, "Yes."

"How could you think so little of me?" I ask, truly appalled. "How could you think so little of yourself?"

The question shocks her out of her trance. She looks up at me with wide eyes, begging me wordlessly for an explanation. I reach out and take her face in my hand, running my thumb over her cheek. It kills me when she flinches.

"I would never hurt you," I swear angrily, standing too close. She finally sheds a tear that spills over my skin. When she speaks, her words are hollow.

"Never intentionally."

"When I hold you at night," I say harshly, forcing her chin up to look at me, "And when I touch you, it's because I want to. I'm not delusional and I'm sure as hell not bored."

"You say this now…"

"And I mean it now, damn it!" I shout, giving no mind to the people downstairs who may or may not be able to hear us. "I mean it now, I'll mean it tomorrow, and I'll keep on meaning it until the day I die."

She's so still. Why do her eyes seem so haunted when she looks up at me like that? Why does she look so tortured with her eyes brimming with tears? It breaks me into a million pieces that I'm not sure will ever fit back together.

"Do you remember the day all of this started?" I ask quietly, "On the roof?"

She nods.

"I do. Every night, when I close my eyes."

"Me too," I say honestly. "Do you remember what I told you that day, when you asked if I ever expected that to happen?"

God, I wish she'd say something.

"I told you I loved you, Ziva," I say firmly. "I meant it then, and I mean it now. I don't know what else I can do to prove myself to you."

She says nothing. Maybe there's nothing left to say. Giving in to the anger I feel building at the back of my skull, I throw the rings on the table and I listen to them clatter to the floor. Ziva recoils from me like she's been slapped.

"What would it take to convince you? What could I possibly do to change your mind?" I ask and she stares ahead, unmoving. I scoff. "Maybe that's an answer in itself. Silence speaks volumes if you're smart enough to listen."

My only answer is her bitter silence and the tears in her dark eyes. The thumb war and our kiss are worlds away; the happiness they usually spark in me has no place here. Maybe they never did. I leave the kitchen and storm down the hall, back into our bedroom. A few minutes ago, we were happy to be lying in bed with each other and making bets on who was on the other side of the door. Now, everything about that short time is gone. Nothing is left. The only thing on my mind is getting some clothes and getting the hell out of here. Maybe Ziva was right; maybe I invested too much in this.

Whatever the case, it's too late to take any of it back now.

---

I sit in stunned silence while Tony walks away. I am deaf and blind; I feel only an intense sorrow that leaks into my blood and deep into my bones. I feel heavy, and I feel lonely. His words linger in my ears, and will not give me peace. How could we have come to this place, where expressions of love come in the midst of tears and angry words? Something, somewhere, has gone terribly wrong. A mistake has been made, and I do not know how to correct it.

He loves me.

The confession echoes in the corners of my mind and yet I cannot believe it. I do not deserve this great gift that he has offered me, and yet he seems so willing to give it. He is a fool—a generous and beautiful fool that has had my heart for far longer than he realizes. Perhaps one day I will make him understand that I never intended to harm him; I hope he realizes that I pushed him away to protect him. Now the decision seems to have been made in error.

I hear him rustling in our closet and I realize that I have to stop him. I cannot let him leave like this, in so much pain. He deserves so much more from me and I intend to give it to him.

He is pulling a shirt over his head as I head down the hall, and I am suddenly embarrassed by my unkempt hair and wrinkled t-shirt. I stop in the middle of the hallway, grasping at words that will not obey my demands. I feel his eyes on me, waiting, and I cast my eyes down to the floor. My mouth is moving, I can feel air rushing out of my lungs, but nothing reaches my ears. At this point, I could easily paint my feelings sooner than I could say them. Tony waits a moment, allowing me my thinking space, before shaking his head and walking up to me. Still, I cannot speak. Even if he is aware of my dilemma, he does not show it. I feel his footsteps approach, and they come to a halt just in front of me. I look up, finding his beautiful green eyes darkened in thought.

When he reaches for me, I go as willingly as I can. He cradles my head in his hands and kisses me roughly, scraping his teeth over my lower lip only to soothe the abused skin with a softer caress a moment later. He is desperate for me, pulling me ever closer while my heart is breaking. My hands remain frozen at my sides; my body will not react no matter how much I beg it to. I am incapable of everything but the tears that slide down my face, mixing with his. Finally, in this simple act, we are one and the same.

"I'm going to miss you," he says breathlessly, when he finally pulls away, "But I can't stay here and torture myself with something I'll never have."

He kisses me again, and then pushes me aside as he walks quickly down the hall. I hear the ill-conceived melody of keys clanging against each other as he grabs them off the table, and then I hear the door open and close again behind him. The hinges creak, the door knob rattles, and the sounds congeal until they become a cacophony I will hear only in my worst dreams from this moment on. I speak only after he is gone, when there is no one here to answer me. I suppose, when taken philosophically, this is answer enough in itself.

"Are you coming back?"

If only he would. I sink to the floor, pulling my knees against my chest.

_What have I done? _


	15. Destinies

**Author's Note:**

**Next chapter! This one is still a bit sad, I know, but it was necessary. Please review and let me know how I'm doing. ;)**

**As always, for JEM--now Mina Blythe, since she's started posting her own things. **

**Chapter Fifteen**

"**Destinies" **

Tony does not come back that night, or the next.

Henri assures me that he is doing a wonderful job with Jolie, traipsing around the city while they practice their respective languages. He is spoiling her rotten, Henri tells me with a sad smile before patting my hand. He knows about our separation, I am sure. While he may see it as a lover's spat, I do not make such a mistake. With each day that passes, I worry if he will stay away for good. I have a nagging doubt that tells me I should have followed him, I should have forced myself to speak up, but it does me no good to think such things now. It is too late.

So I go to work, and I enjoy my time there to the best of my ability. It is hard without Tony making jokes in my ear, or idly complaining about some small aspect of our day. It is truly surprising what you miss when the one you love is gone. I think that over and over again at night, when I am alone with nothing but my regrets. When I am at home, I clean to keep from dwelling on these feelings. I keep his suits lined up in a straight row on the left side of our closet, and I pay close attention to keeping our home tidy. It does need the attention. I refuse to wallow, but I am a quick worker and I spend most of my night waiting for the door to open up again. It has not done that yet.

Most of the time I work with Henri, but occasionally I spend time with Armand.

Armand Nouvel is shy, but he is a sweet boy. He is tall and still a little awkward for his age, but it will not be long until he fills out and becomes more like his father. Physically, in any case. Mentally and emotionally, I am sure that he is much more like his mother. He mentions her occasionally, with much love and longing in his voice. All his dreams in life consist of graduating to become a professor of literature, like she had been before her death. I always hope that he achieves this dream.

I can see his love for the subject when he speaks of it; his eyes light up and his voice gains volume that it lacks when he is simply speaking out of necessity. He regards these long-dead authors like dear personal friends, and handles their novels like newborns. I am in awe of his vast knowledge of the subject. I am no slouch when it comes to literature, but his knowledge far surpasses mine. It is Armand that I am spending this Friday afternoon with, going through boxes assigned by his father so they are appropriately classified by five o'clock tonight.

"What do you think?" I ask, studying the spine of a worn novel. "Should Hemingway be classified under classics or American literature?"

The young man pulls his eyes up from the floor to give me a thoughtful glance. His curly black hair falls in his face with every flick of his eyes over the cover, and his bright gray eyes glimmer with the challenge behind small silver glasses. Even these simple tasks set his mind whirling, and I smile at him when he is not paying attention. He is a dear boy, and reminds me a small bit of McGee. Finally, after having arrived at some sort of decision, his head snaps up and he nods in agreement with his own thoughts.

"How many copies do we have?" he asks in French and then corrects in English, "Copies. How many of the book?"

"Two," I reply in English. I realize that Tony was, is, the teacher in this arrangement, but it does not mean that I cannot inspire good habits.

"Simple," he says with a lopsided smirk, "One for each."

"Clever idea," I agree and put one copy aside. The next time I retreat into the American literature section, I will take it back with me. "I think I am thirsty, Armand. Would your father mind if we stopped to have a drink?"

"How many boxes do we have left?"

"Three," I answer, looking around me. "We are almost halfway finished."

"I think we should be able to finish before he begins yelling," he says with a sly smile and I return it. I do like him.

We set our books down, keeping our places in our work, but before we can gather our things and leave a small bell signals the arrival of someone else in the bookstore. I freeze and hold my breath, praying to hear Tony's voice, only to be disappointed. Armand and I retreat from our corner of the bookstore to find a young girl, looking a bit lost. My companion freezes next to me, his body suddenly rigid. His breathing has become a little more labored.

"Who is she?" I ask him.

"Who is who?"

"That girl," I reply pointedly. "It is obvious that you know her."

"I don't."

"Liar!" I cry, peeking around the shelf. She is a pretty girl, with very short blonde hair and big blue eyes. She wears gold glasses perched on a slender, aristocratic nose. She is looking around slowly, wondering if she walked into a closed store on accident. When I look back at Armand, he is watching her with a desperate intensity that leaves little doubt in my mind about just how he knows her.

"You like her," I observe casually with a large smile. He gulps in reply. "She is a very pretty girl, to be sure. From the worn copy of Tolstoy in her hands, I would surmise that she is also intelligent."

"Yes…" he says dreamily before clearing his throat and shaking his head. "She is my advisor's assistant at the university. Her name is Etienne."

"Ah," I reply knowingly with a wink, "An older woman."

He shrugs, defensive. "Only a year older."

"Hello?" the girl calls in French. She must have heard our whispering. "Is someone there?"

"Talk to her," he whispers to me harshly, this time in French. He forgets his English in his urgency. "Please, Maria. I'll do anything."

"Go on, Armand," I cajole him in his native language. "It is it really so hard to believe that she would accept you?"

"Why should she?" he asks, albeit a little bitterly. It surprises me in one so young. "I do not think she ever notices me."

"You will not know until you try," I advise and offer a kind smile. "Take a chance!"

"I can't!"

"You won't get anywhere until you do," I tell him, feeling a slight pang in my chest at the words. Before I know what I'm doing, I grab his shoulders and not-so-gently push him out into the open. He stumbles, cursing in French, and I hear the girl gasp in surprise. It takes a second or two, but Armand composes himself and calmly asks if she needs any help—he was in the back, arranging the shelves and didn't hear her come in. The girl, Etienne, laughs nervously and expresses her desire to find a book called "Love in the Time of Cholera." Armand loves the book and volunteers to help her search for it.

I smile as they chat, and let myself sneak off to the back where I will not interrupt them. Love begins so easily, and it is so fragile. My own advice to Armand rings in my ears, and I could kick myself. Perhaps I should have been looking in a mirror when I said it. Nevertheless, I overhear laughing and joyful conversation from the next room. The sound makes me smile despite my sorrow, and I secretly hope that Armand has the nerve to ask her to dinner before she leaves the store. He should, if he has already built up the confidence to talk to her. If I can persuade Armand to take such a risk, surely I should be able to take one of my own.

When Tony comes back, I will have to tell him that.

---

"Favorite comedy?"

Jolie makes a show of thinking about her answer before answering, "Father Goose."

"Cary Grant and Leslie Caron," I remark, sipping at my cappuccino, "Interesting choice. It's not all that well-known, but still hilarious."

Jolie and I are parked at a sidewalk café, having lunch and talking about movies. It's not the most popular curriculum, I know, but we have fun. Lots of it, actually. We work intermittently on her English and Spanish while she coaches me in my French. I have a bit of background in the romantic languages and it makes it easier for both of us to learn more of the others. After the last three days—quite possibly the worst in a long, long time—Jolie is a welcome jolt of sunshine. She's nothing if not happy and energetic, which is just what I've needed this week.

So, when she convinces me to buy her chocolate at nine o'clock in the morning, what else could I do but fork it over? It's an overcast and unbearably humid morning in France, and I feel like spoiling her for a little while.

"Favorite heist movie?" I ask as she tears off a corner of her croissant.

"Ocean's 11," she replies, "The _original_. With Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin."

"I knew I liked you," I say and she laughs.

"Favorite romance?" she questions, watching my expression carefully.

I exhale loudly, pretending to think about the long list of titles flowing through my brain. What I'm actually doing is watching Ziva's incredulous stare as I storm out of the apartment. It's all I can think about recently.

"Casablanca," I say finally, without realizing that I'd made a choice.

She wrinkles her nose. "A sad, sad movie."

"It doesn't have to be," I say honestly, "Sometimes things don't work out how they want them to. It just happens that way. You can make yourself miserable or you can move on."

"But what about love?" she cries, her food suddenly forgotten as she leans forward to rest her elbows on the table. "Love always wins! The hero may have to fight for what he wants, and it may not be simple for him to do that, but he does. Nothing that means anything is ever easy."

I blink. "When did you get so smart?"

"I always have been," she huffs.

"You're ten," I point out bitterly, "You have absolutely zero life experience."

"I may be young, but I am not blind," she scoffs and mutters something else in French. "If you really want something—if it is honestly what you desire, more than anything else—you have to keep fighting for it. Otherwise you don't deserve it."

"What if the hero never deserved it?"

The question hangs in the air and I look onto the street, where the rest of the world is getting on with their lives. I feel trapped here. A soft hand on mine brings me out of my thoughts and Jolie is staring me down with those big blue eyes of her. Her face is flushed and it worries me that she's doing her best not to cry. Sweet, crazy kid.

"Why are you and Madame Russo fighting?" she asks softly, patting my hand. I stiffen. How had she known?

"You sleep on the couch in the store," she points out sadly. "I notice things, and I asked about them, but Father would not tell me why."

"It's a long story," I say honestly. "But don't worry about it."

"How could I not worry about it?" she asks incredulously, slapping my hand lightly. I frown at her but she seems unscathed. "Everyone has second chances, Monsieur Russo. Everyone! All you have to do is want one."

She's assuming that Ziva kicked me out, but I'm not going to correct her. She doesn't need to know any of the grisly details, not that I would tell her anyway.

"I don't know what I want anymore, to tell you the truth."

I need to stop. I need to stop this right now, because I'm telling a little kid things she shouldn't have to worry about at her age. What goes on between me and Ziva is our problem, not hers. Jolie seems to understand, though. God only knows how, but she does. I have no idea how I'm going to keep being her teacher if I break down every other minute.

"I heard your wife crying last night."

The statement makes me do a double take.

"You what?"

"I had gone upstairs to see if she would have liked company," she says, shrugging. "You were downstairs, asleep already, and I didn't want to walk home because I was afraid she was lonely."

"Jolie…"

"Before I could knock on the door I heard her crying through the door," she says solemnly. "It sounded very much like she knew what she wanted and couldn't have it."

All I can do is exhale loudly and finish of what's left of my cappuccino. I don't want to think about Ziva alone in that apartment, crying. I don't want to think about why she's crying, either, because that opens up a whole new avenue of thoughts I don't want to go down. Obviously I've known that she wouldn't be happy to see me go. I'd expected unhappiness, maybe anger. Tears? No. The Ziva I knew rarely cried, if ever. I'm starting to get the startling idea that our fight wasn't exactly what it seemed at the time.

"Come on, kid," I say, throwing some cash on the table for the bill. "We're wasting daylight."

"There is no sun out today," she points out as she grabs her purse from the back of her chair. "Armand says there will be a storm tonight."

"You know what I mean," I reply, starting off onto the sidewalk with her. "You and I have places to go, people to see."

"Like who?"

"Why do you ask so many questions?" I ask, feigning irritation. She winks up at me and falls into step just beside me.

Taking in the city with Jolie is easy. We're a good match, she and I. Normally I enjoy her company without complication, but today there's a shadow cast over our time. I can't stop thinking about Ziva, and why she was crying. Suddenly, leaving her doesn't seem like what she really wanted. Maybe I made a mistake in storming out so quickly.

When I go home, I'll have to tell her that.


	16. Apologies

**[Author's Note]**

**Hello all! I realize that it's been a little while since my last chapter, but I'm dearly hoping that this will make up for the indiscretion. And for the record, I feel like I should mention the fact that I was listening to John Mayer's "Slow Dancing in a Burning Room" all while I was writing this. The lyrics don't exactly match up, but the tone really did. I recommend you listen to it while you read if you want an extra treat. ;)**

**Thanks, as always, to Mina. **

**Chapter Sixteen**

"**Apologies"**

"Bet's to you, John."

Martin's voice pulls my attention back to the cards in my hands. I've got a pair of nines, but judging by the smug look on Henri's face he's got at least a pair of jacks. Maybe better.

"Five," I say, tossing a worn chip onto the top of the pile. I'm practically bleeding chips here, but I doubt it matters. Despite the fact that we're playing with thousand-dollar chips, Henri and Martin don't seem like the type to make me fork up as much as I've lost tonight. I hope. Playing in the smoky back room of a bookstore isn't exactly my idea of a setting for a high-stakes game, particularly one that I'm losing. I'm less like James Bond in Casino Royale than I am Felix Leiter, sadly enough.

"All in," Henri says smugly, beaming.

Oh, yeah. He's got at least a pair of kings. Martin follows suit, forfeiting his chips to the pot in the center of the table. Who am I kidding? I've got no chance and I want to keep playing.

"Fold," I say, tossing my cards into the middle.

"You have no luck tonight, my friend," Henri says graciously, turning his cards over for us to see. Three queens. Martin grumbles and throws two pair—tens and eights—on the table. The pot goes to Henri, smiling like he won the lottery. I secretly hope he hasn't—I don't have that kind of money to hand over.

"I think he's cheating," Martin says, elbowing me with a wink. The man has lightened up considerably since we first met; now he's almost pleasant.

"Believe whatever you like, brother," Henri preens, "It will not change the fact that you now owe me over fifty cents."

Ha. They're playing with pocket change.

"Here, buddy," I say, tossing him a ten thousand-dollar chip. I guess it actually means ten cents. "I'll spot you a few. Poker's no fun with just two people."

"Much appreciated," he says and takes the solitary chip, "I'll get it back to you, double."

Henri and I laugh and before the next hand can be dealt, a crack of thunder has the windows shaking in their panes. Rain starts as an unsteady thrum but quickly builds to an all-out roar. The three of us exchange glances, wordlessly commenting on the weather before turning back to the table. Like he was summoned by the storm, Armand shuffles in under a battered navy umbrella. His father greets him in French, his uncle in English, and then just to be different I offer my own Spanish salutation.

"_Bonjour_," the kid replies, shoving his umbrella off to the side without closing it. He shakes the rain from his hair and rubs his glasses on his shirt. Then, seeing me, he adds, "Good evening."

"Doesn't look so good to me," I say playfully and the kid breaks into a smile. "Or is it?"

"Armand had a date tonight," his father says proudly and even Armand puffs up his chest. I crack a smile.

"Oh, is that so?" I ask, "That would explain the lipstick on your cheek then, wouldn't it?"

Armand stops short and rubs at his cheek frantically, grimacing when the palm of his hand comes away a little pinker than it should. He blushes furiously, murmurs something in French, and then sheds his coat while the grown men start laughing. The kid glares at us—like we all have at our fathers sometime in our lives—and shrugs off his jacket, slinging water everywhere.

"Well?" Martin asks impatiently, "How did it go with the mademoiselle?"

"Perfect," he says defensively. "Picture perfect."

"Ah, young love," I reminisce. "Good times."

"You are too old to remember that now, I expect," he says, pulling up a seat between his uncle and his father. I glare at him and he grins. "What are you, forty? Fifty?"

"I'm thirty-seven," I say, horrified, and he has the nerve to laugh. "I don't like you anymore, kid. You're cruel."

"He is sensitive, son," Henri says sternly. "You must be careful of American sensitivity. Their men tend to cry, if I am not mistaken."

I glare. They all laugh.

"You know what?" I say, leaning forward and tossing my cards into the middle of the table. I point a finger at him and he smirks a little wider. "When I was your age, I had more girls than I knew what to do with. You hear me? More than I knew that to _do _with!"

He laughs. "And yet your wife has banished you to our couch. It looks to me like you still don't know what to do with them."

_Ouch. _

"Armand!" Henri whispers angrily.

"No, it's okay," I say softly, leaning back. "No harm, no foul."

"Monsieur Russo, I-"

"No, kid," I say emphatically, "It's okay, really. Don't sweat it."

"Armand, you must learn more tact in the future," Henri chastises sternly, reaching out to gather the cards back up. "John, my apologies. Truly."

I offer him a smile, intending to tell him that I didn't take any offense, but I'm sure it came out as a grimace. It feels a lot like I took a fist to the gut.

"As you grow older, mate, you'll find that not all fights are one spouse's fault," Martin says wisely, nodding at Armand. "In this case, our friend John is not at fault. The lovely Maria is. He left on his own accord."

"Hey, come on-"

"Why did you leave?" Armand asks, suddenly enraptured by the story. All I want is to push myself away from the table and go hide somewhere. The wound is still a little too fresh for my comfort.

"Just, uh… just some difference of opinion. That's all."

"It's cold like that sometimes, boy," Martin warns, much to my displeasure. "Women can drive you out of your own home, whenever it suits them."

"That's not fair," I say, actually feeling my temper begin to flare.

"Why isn't it?"

"She's not like that at all," I tell them seriously. "Maria had a hard life, okay? She dealt with a lot before she came to America. That just tends to drift over into our relationship every now and then." I cross my arms over my chest in an obviously defensive stance when Martin scoffs, shaking his head. I'm not liking him nearly as much now as I did fifteen minutes ago.

"Loads of people have hard lives, John," he informs me in a matter-of-fact way that makes me want to deck him. "That doesn't mean they can run someone out of their own home."

"It wasn't like that."

"Then what was it like?" Martin asks carelessly, seemingly oblivious to how annoyed I'm getting by his assumptions.

"Maria… she's careful. A lot of people have gotten close to her and used her for all the wrong reasons," I say, feeling the heat rush to my face. "It's in her nature not to trust people, even the ones that care about her. She has to hold herself back sometimes, to protect herself."

Martin raises an eyebrow and my heart thuds painfully in my chest. He suddenly looks just like Gibbs when's made a very important point. It looks like I'm not the only one who's been working on the patented Gibbs stare.

"My mistake," he says calmly, leaning back with a slight smile. "I'll try to keep to my own business in the future, mate. Don't hold a bitter man's views against him."

"Not at all," I tell him.

We resume our poker game like nothing happened. Martin keeps losing, Henri keeps winning, and I stay in limbo. Armand occasionally tosses us chips so we can keep playing and I can tell that Henri occasionally throws a game to give the rest of us a fighting chance. Things between us are calm now, even as the storm outside rages on and makes it sound like the world is coming to an end. Thunder shakes the ground beneath us and the lights flicker. The old bookstore groans in protest of the wind and we play on, because there's nothing else for us to do with ourselves this time of night.

Two long hours pass, with lots of laughter and brandy between the four of us guys. I finally have a killer hand—a heart flush—when the lights die on us completely and we're plunged into blackness.

"Bloody hell!"

"_Merde!_"

"Armand! Language!"

"Hey," I add. "Where'd the lights go?"

We wait a few seconds, but they don't show any sign of coming back on. We do our fair share of grumbling as we push away from the table in search of light. I curse my luck because close to five bucks was on the line in this hand, ruined by the weather. Martin finds a lantern after a few minutes but it doesn't do much. The lightning outside gives us more to see by than the tiny thing in his hands.

"Well, men, I think we should turn in for the night," Martin suggests. "This is as good a reason as any. I was tired of losing, besides."

"Yes, I think you have a point," Henri agrees, exhaling loudly. "We should lock up and get going. Jolie will be getting restless by now, alone all this time."

"What are you going to do?" Armand asks me, shrugging his coat over his shoulders and picking up his umbrella.

"Clean up my mess and go to sleep," I reply. "What did you think I was going to do?"

"It's just that… the apartment does not have much in it," he says shyly, and I can tell that his inadvertent comment earlier is still bothering him. "I do not know if she will have any light available to her."

"He has a point, John," Henri says gently, like I'm going to take offense to the suggestion. "You may need to go up there and check on her, just to see if she needs anything."

"You know how women are," Martin points out with a chuckle. "She's probably up there, scared of the dark."

"Yeah," I say softly, suddenly nervous about seeing her again. "Yeah, I'll go talk to her real quick."

They all go back to what they were doing, completely oblivious to what I've just agreed to.

---

I feel my way up the stairs one at a time, listening to them creak under my weight. I had to run around the side of the shop to get to this staircase, and my clothes are soaked through. It's hard to see out here—it looks like the whole neighborhood has lost power—but the frequent flashes of lightning help my cause. I reach the door and my heart is racing with all the loaded possibilities waiting on me on the other side of the door. I start to knock, and then realize that I don't know what would happen if I did. The idea of her sending me away makes my chest constrict painfully. In the end, it's the storm that forces me inside—ready or not. I'm soaked, it's cold, and I really don't want to get hit by lightning. My luck isn't always the best and I'm not pushing it.

I'm shocked to realize that the door isn't locked when my key only turns uselessly on its side, the tumblers already forced out of position. It isn't like Ziva to keep her door unlocked and it worries me. I open the door quietly, stepping inside before any more water gets in the apartment and we end up ruining the carpet. I'm met with warm air and the heady mixture of sandalwood, vanilla, and cinnamon as I shut the door behind me. I blink the water out of my eyes and see candles situated randomly around the room, old newspapers under each of them to prevent the wax from ruining the counters. Her power must have gone out before ours if she had time to get all this set up. I'm not surprised—the power up here is tenuous at best. It probably kicked the bucket long before ours did downstairs.

I look around and notice all the other adjustments she's made in the last few days. Despite the darkness, it's easy to see that the place is spotless without her hurried adjustments for the storm. Pots and pans are scattered on various surfaces around the house, each of them paired with a leak from the ceiling. There are quite a few and I have to wonder where she'd gotten all the dishes necessary to prevent a flood. The sound of the rain mixes with the sound of droplets hitting the pans, and it's a wonder Ziva's getting any sleep. The sound would have kept me awake forever.

Not her, though. The apartment is silent and still, shrouded in shadows. I slip out of my ruined jacket and leave it by the door, where it can drip in peace. The deep leather armchair is situated away from the door, but I can see that it's occupied. I walk slowly through the small space, heart stuttering against my ribs until I get close enough to see that Ziva's not moving. She's asleep, curled on her side and nestled into the chair with her knees against her chest. Her hair is long and curly, like she used to wear it when we first met. She's wearing a cream-colored sweater I picked out for myself a few days ago, before everything went to hell. It swallows her whole almost, but it makes me smile to see her wearing it. My eyes drift to the tissue wadded up in her hand, complete with dark brown smudges of mascara.

"Ah, Zee," I murmur softly, leaning down on my knees in front of her. A glint of color catches my attention out of the corner of my eye, and I look down to see the ring I bought perched on her finger. It's a little loose, but it's there. I'll have to get it resized if she wants to keep wearing it.

Ziva moves in her sleep, like she's aware of my scrutiny. I clear my throat a little louder than I need to, only so she's not scared when she opens her eyes to find me here. It takes a second or two, but her eyes finally do open. The molten brown absorbs all the firelight out of the room and her eyes glow as they sleepily seek me out. She blinks a few times when her gaze settles on my face, and I offer her a smile.

"It is raining," she says softly.

"Yeah," I laugh. "Yeah, it is."

"I was afraid you would not come back," she says, blunt as ever. She uncurls herself and my attention is pulled to the gold chain around her neck. A slim gold band hangs around it—the wedding band I'd bought for myself. She put her Star of David away a long time ago, for safety's sake. It stuns me that she'd replaced it with a reminder of something as unpleasant as the circumstances in which the rings had been offered.

"I'm sorry, Zee," I say honestly. "I shouldn't have just run off like that."

"I deserved it," she says, casting her eyes down and away from mine. "I let my fears overrule your intentions, and I am sorry."

"I didn't take the time to understand where you were coming from, either," I tell her, thinking of mine and Martin's staged argument a few hours before. "I should have."

"I should have stopped you."

"Shoulda, coulda, woulda, Zee," I say, laughing when her eyes narrow in confusion. "Let's just forget it, okay? Pretend it never happened go from there."

She smiles. "I would enjoy that."

"You're wearing your ring," I observe, a faint smile playing on my mouth. "Mine, too."

"It made me feel closer to you," she reveals, her voice subdued and almost shy. She's still subconsciously waiting for my rejection, but she's not going to get it. Ever.

"I wish I'd come home sooner," I admit sheepishly. "I was just afraid. I didn't know if you still wanted me gone, or if you even cared."

"I never wanted you to leave at all," she says adamantly. "I just… did not know how to tell you that. Everything was going up in flames right in front of me, and I did not know how to fix it. Or if I could."

"The way I was acting that day, I doubt I even would have listened to you," I say guiltily. It's the truth. "Just know that I am sorry."

"Me too," she says sadly, pushing her hair behind her ear.

"Hey," I say, reaching for her hands, "Come here."

She slips out of the chair and down to the floor with me, her body shaking with tension. Her eyes never stay on mine more than a second or two. It's easy to see that she's on edge, but I'm working on doing something about that. It's hard to keep my distance from her, after being away for what feels like lifetimes. I want to feel her close to me, but I still have no idea how that would go over. Ziva looks just as nervous as I feel but her hand reaches out, resting against my jaw.

"I did miss you, Tony," she whispers. "More than I can tell you."

"I missed you too," I confess quietly, studying her in the glimmering light from the candles around us. I relish the feel of her skin against my face and before I can convince myself that I should wait, I reach up and grab her wrist. I pull her hand away from my face and I register extreme anxiety in her eyes before my lips drift across the tender skin of her palm. They travel further, down the slender length of her wrist. I feel the tremor shoot through her body and I hear the slight catch in her breath as her eyes close. Every nerve in my body comes alive as I move over her, catching brushes of her skin with modest touches. She's like a magnet, pulling me in.

"I love you," she breathes, the words washing over me like a warm tide. "I do, I love you."

I stop for a moment, leaning into her just to feel her close by. Her head has leaned back, against the chair behind her. I feel the air leaving her lungs and the thumping of blood in her veins. My own blood starts to heat like I'm aware of her presence even at the barest molecular level. McGee would tell me that I am—something about nerve endings, or whatever—but all I want to do now is tell McGee to get out of my head. All my attention is focused on Ziva's skin, and how she looks wrapped up in my shirt and the warm light of the candles.

I follow my own whim until my face is pressed against the hollow of her throat. I press a light kiss there and as she shivers I whisper, "I love you, too."

Her hands grasp at me as I take her in, every breath and every fluttering heartbeat against her skin. She radiates warmth and I rest my hands on her hips, gently pulling her against me. Grasping my shirt in her hands, she arches into my touch while my mouth maps out the smooth terrain of her throat. Every breath makes her shudder and makes my pulse race. Her jaw is soft as I run my lips across it, ending with a chaste kiss at the corner of her mouth. She opens her eyes and studies me for a long moment and then sits up to kiss me. She's slow, languid, and the soft pull of her lips on mine sends my heart into my throat. I want this to last forever—this sensation of being with someone without doubt, without fear. I would have given anything for even a fraction of this moment.

When she pulls back my breathing has kicked up a notch to match hers and she looks at me in a way that makes a chill run leisurely over the top of my skin. I kiss her chin, reveling in the look in her eyes. I run my hand just under the hem of the sweater separating us. Supple skin greets my hand as I trace the line of her spine. She sighs, eyes closed, and then I'm gone. We're all alone in an attic apartment surrounded by dimly lit candles and pounding thunder and rain. For one of the first times in my life, there's not a single place I'd rather be than here.

Nothing feels this good—nothing.


	17. Remedies

**Author's Note:**

**Dear, dear readers. I have made two important discoveries in the last few days. The first being that I haven't thanked you all profusely enough for the oustanding feedback on this story. There are days--as I'm sure you all know--that make you want to quit everything. Your reviews and endlessly kind attention have made me keep going, even when I was stuck in the quagmire of writer's block. For that, I am ever grateful. A million times, _thank you._**

**My second discovery was that I haven't made a disclaimer. Like, at all. For this entire story. Consider this small sentiment to be both retroactive and proactive, for I almost certainly won't be expressing it again: I most don't own NCIS. If I did, we'd be having a completely different conversation, you and I. ;) But if anyone's offering, keep me in the loop. **

**And just in case my previous rambling wasn't enough: this chapter is dedicated to the beautiful, wonderful, endlessly patient Mina Blythe. She'll be traveling to Europe in the next few days, and I'll be desolate without her. Vaya con dios, mi carina. **

**Chapter Seventeen**

"**Remedies"**

I awake to the sound of soft rain on the window and the sensation of warm breath across my neck. The sun is just beginning to think of rising, casting a faint and shadowy glow over the world outside our windows. Our bedroom is still dark, and I have no thoughts of moving. It does not take long for me to notice the pressure of Tony's body against mine, heavier now as he remains in the hold of sleep. His head rests in the crook of my neck and his arm is slung across my midriff, keeping me close. He holds me like I will escape during the night, when his guard is down. Of course that will never happen. Walking away from him is something I will never do again, as long as the choice is mine to make.

I do not blame him for this fear, however unconscious it may be. Tony is cautious, if nothing else. He always expects his loved ones to walk away. It is why, I have realized, he usually does the walking first. His father, Jeanne… even Gibbs. Gibbs came back from his self-imposed "retirement," but the damage was done. I feel for him. Tony deserves more from us all, but that is not how life often works. Rarely does it act in our favor. I am still surprised, even now, that we have been shown the simple kindness of finding one another. I am more grateful for this than I have been for anything else in my life.

Tony's weight feels very natural against me. I marvel at him, tracing a finger along the planes of muscle in his back and shoulders. He shifts unconsciously in his sleep, but I do not stop. I have found a new attachment to the muscles surrounding his shoulder blades, and how they flex and stretch as he moves. They are only hints, though, at the strength below the surface. I always find myself in awe of him, in the simplest of situations—like now. He is sprawled across my body, his hair sticking up in many different directions, and yet he is the most alluring creature I have ever seen. Something deep inside him pulls me in, slowly but without question.

He is a beautiful man, in each and every sense of the word. I wish he took more time to realize that. He is always prepared with a laugh and a slightly inappropriate glance in my direction, and I never realized just how much I loved that about him. I would venture a guess that I loved everything about him, but his nagging about pushing the toothpaste from the bottom up quickly got on my nerves. That aside, however, I have nothing but love in my heart and mind for him. I would be content to lay in bed all morning and touch him lightly like this, but his voice interrupts my musings.

"I can hear you thinking," Tony says, his voice muffled against my skin.

"Oh really?" I ask with a smile, threading my fingers through his hair. "What am I thinking?"

"You're thinking," he begins, pressing a kiss to my collarbone, "That you want to call in to work and stay in bed all day." Another kiss. "With me."

"A tempting offer," I admit, giving in to the warmth spreading from his touch as he rises up and leans into me. "But I was actually thinking about replacing the carpet in the living room."

"We need to after last night," he chuckles and I find myself blushing against my will. "Who knew how long it would take us to find the bed?"

I laugh as his fingertips ghost over my ribs while his lips travel up to meet mine. Slowly, painstakingly, his eyes follow the same journey. They burn with longing and my breath catches. He kisses me like he will never again have the chance. He traces the seam of my lips with his tongue, causing my heart to hiccup in my chest and a small moan to pour from my mouth. The man steals my breath each and every time, without fail. No one has ever made me feel like I do with him, in these small moments away from the rest of the world.

"Well?" he asks finally, his breath fluttering against my lips. "What's it going to be?"

"What?" I ask, confused. The edges of my consciousness are fuzzy, blurred beyond recognition. Surely he cannot expect me to think or speak coherently when he kisses me like that, or when his hand drifts across the bare skin of my stomach.

"Work?" he asks again, swiftly pressing his mouth to my temple.

"It is Sunday," I tell him breathlessly, my body humming in anticipation. "We are closed."

"Perfect." His breath is hurried now. His heart is racing.

"You?" I ask in return, craving more of his touch, "Should I expect Jolie to come rushing through the door at any moment, demanding time with her teacher?"

"Not today," he assures me as I feel his palm brush my inner thigh. He smirks at the startled _oh! _that passed my lips. "They shipped her off to visit a school friend for the day. I won't be anybody's teacher until bright and early tomorrow morning."

I take in a deep gulp of air. "It looks like we have a day to ourselves then, yes?"

"Looks like."

We do not talk again after that.

---

We sleep another few hours, as the newborn morning ages into afternoon. Sometime around nine I hear the shower start, but I do not wake again until after eleven. The apartment is silent. I slip into the shower before I can convince myself to go back to sleep. The water is gloriously hot, almost scalding, and I revel in it. My body is sore in ways it has not been in a pitifully long while but I cannot help but smile. For once, the pain is a good thing. A very, _very _good thing.

Then, completely unaware of what I have done, I start humming. It has been a long time since this habit has appeared. It is an old lullaby my long-deceased mother used to sing for me, when childhood was still an asset in my arsenal. I have not thought of it in years. My voice starts out quiet—barely audible over the steady patter of water on the tile—but then it rises, echoing above the sounds of the shower. I smile as it reaches my ears. My own voice is almost foreign, at least in song.

I take my time washing the shampoo out of my hair, and toweling myself dry. The small mirror has fogged over completely when I shrug into the soft, darkened amber-colored robe I bought last week. I open the bathroom door to let out some of the steam, and I walk right into Tony. I blink in surprise and look up to find his knowing smirk.

I smile back, if a little suspiciously. "Can I help you with something?"

"I heard you singing," he says with a smile. "That's a new development."

"I sing, Tony."

"I've never heard you before."

"Perhaps I have not felt like it," I offer and push past him, into the small hallway. I feel him close behind me and I smile as I enter the kitchen.

"And you do now?"

"It would seem that way, yes," I say, sitting at the table and eyeing him as he comes to stand in front of me. His brow is furrowed and his eyes have darkened. "What is on your mind? You seem… troubled."

"Are you singing because you're happy?" he asks, perfectly serious, and I find myself laughing.

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"Come on, it's a fair question," he says, crossing his arms over his broad chest. I find myself momentarily distracted by his lack of a shirt but then steer myself back to task.

"You are asking if I am happy?" He nods and stare at him. "I will be happier once I have my coffee…"

"Zee," he sighs, "I'm serious."

"Right," I say and take a deep breath. "Of course I am happy. Do I have a reason not to be?"

"No. I don't know. I was just wondering," he says, stepping forward and placing a kiss into my wet hair. "Can I ask a favor?"

"I suppose so," I say, leaning my elbow on the table and cupping my chin in my hand. "What can I do for you this morning?"

"Can I have my ring back?"

My stomach drops painfully. His ring? That could only mean one thing. Apparently I have misunderstood our situation… again. Cursing my foolishness, I drop my eyes from his. Stupid, stupid woman. Finding myself unable to speak, I nod and reach for the ring on my left hand. I will not cry, I will not cry…

"No," he says. "Not that one."

"What?"

"The one around your neck," he replies with a wide smile. "You know, mine. The one that matches yours."

"Oh!" I cry, eagerly reaching for the gold chain around my neck. "Yes, of course." I unhook the clasp and let the ring slide into my hand, the gold warm against my palm.

"Why would you think I was talking about the other one?" he asks with a scoff, as though the idea would never have occurred to him.

"No, no reason," I say and offer up a smile, "Here, then. It is all yours."

"Weird chick," he observes, sliding the gold band over his knuckle and onto his finger completely without celebration. Despite my sudden state of anxiety, I admire the way it looks on his hand. Very natural, in fact, for someone who has always prided himself on his anti-committment ways.

"Well?" he asks. "What do you want to eat? We're going to have breakfast a la DiNozzo this morning. Well…" He looks at the clock on the stove. "Maybe lunch."

"Are you sure?" I ask. "I would prefer for you not to burn the kitchen down."

He glares at me and replies, "You just wait. I'm going to make you the best French toast you've ever had in your life."

"If we are in France, is it just called toast?"

He chuckles and grabs a skillet from the cupboard.

---

"You know what I think?" Tony asks me, popping a wedge of toast into his mouth.

"What do you think?"

"I think we really should fix this place up," he says casually, cradling my legs in his lap. "You know, give it a little pizzazz. _Joie de vivre_, if you will."

"Hmm," I say, looking around us at the living room. As much character as it has currently, I would prefer to avoid flooding in the event of another storm like the one last night. Plus, the carpet will soon fade to nothing and the wallpaper has already passed into the afterlife. He may have a point. "I suppose it could use a little freshening up."

"Freshening up?" he asks incredulously and I laugh, pushing still-damp hair out of my eyes. "Come on, this place needs some serious TLC."

"It needs The Learning Channel?" I ask. "I do not see how dozens of shows with poor parents and too many children will help the apartment's ambiance."

"I didn't mean the channel. TLC stands for tender loving care," he says, ever so slightly amused. "Besides, you can't tell me you haven't watched _at least _two episodes of Jon and Kate Plus Eight."

"I have not-"

He clicks his tongue. "Ziva, don't lie to me."

"Well," I blush, "Maybe one or two."

"The prosecution rests."

"Hush," I say, cutting my eyes at him. He is right, though. The apartment does need some desperate attention.

"What do you think we should do to it?" I ask, actually thinking of the few swatches of paint tucked away in a drawer in the kitchen. I have had little else to think of in the last few days. I did want to keep the color scheme in this room, if at all possible. I could be persuaded to alter the kitchen and the bathroom, if he tried hard enough. The bedroom, however, will not be touched.

"I don't know, really. It's not my thing," he admits, leaning forward to slide his empty plate onto the coffee table. "But I'm willing to bet you've already given it some thought."

I laugh. "You do know me too well."

"Guilty as charged," he says and leans back on the arm of the couch, exhaling loudly and bringing his legs up to stretch across the length of the worn cushions. His eyes close and silence prevails for a few moments, until I put my plate down and it clatters against the surface of the table next to his. I crawl forward, finally resting my head against his stomach as my legs curl around his. I listen to his breathing grow deeper but before he falls asleep, I need to know something.

"Tony," I say, tapping on the muscles of his abdomen. "Tony, wake up a moment."

"What is it?" he murmurs sleepily, not bothering to open his eyes for my interruption. "I promise I turned the stove off."

"I know, I checked," I reply and he scowls wordlessly. "Tony, I need to ask you something."

"What?"

"Are you… scared?" I ask tentatively, hoping desperately that I have chosen my words correctly. I may not have. Tony opens his eyes immediately and props himself up to look at me.

"What are you talking about?"

"Nervous, I mean…" I sigh, trying to find the right way to say this. "Do you have concerns about this? About us, together. Like this."

He frowns. "No. Do you?"

I do not answer. I stammer guiltily, but his eyes soften and I do not have the chance to apologize before he interrupts me.

"Zee, it's okay to be nervous," he says confidently. "This isn't exactly happening in the best of circumstances, but you know what? We'll make it work."

I laugh. "You sound so sure of yourself."

"Infallible pride is just one of my many virtues," he jokes. "But if you get scared, just talk to me. All it takes is one word and we can handle whatever happens. I promise."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Always."

"Okay, then. I trust you," I say softly and lay my head back down, breathing far easier than I have in days. I feel him lay his body back down and his hands find my hair, twirling it absently as he falls to sleep. It is not long before his body goes slack and his hand slumps to my shoulder. I smile against his skin and listen to his light snoring, enjoying how his chest moves up and down with every breath.

_We will be fine,_ I think as my eyes start to close. _We will be just fine._


	18. Days

**[Author's Note]**

**Happy weekend, everyone! It's almost over, I know, but the sentiment remains the same. I hope you're all enjoying your precious time off. I know I am. ;)**

**I wanted this chapter to show the passage of time, and how Tony and Ziva's relationship has grown and solidified. I hope that comes out well enough, since it was quite difficult for me to plan out and finally get it how I wanted it. In any case, please enjoy it.**

**My Mina remains in Europe, so all mistakes are mine.**

**Chapter Eighteen**

"**Days"**

Tony's birthday comes in the very beginning of July.

I wake early, already prepared with breakfast in bed and other… shall we say, _recreational _activities. Despite his fervor this morning, it surprises me to see how much he mourns this day, as though thirty-eight years old was horrifically close to the end of his life. He has dreaded forty, he tells me, since he was ten. Now, much to his displeasure, he is only two threadbare years away.

"I do not see how your age affects anything," I say, leaning against the frame of the bathroom door. He is brushing his teeth, preparing for the day. Jolie will be here soon, desperate for time with her new best friend. They have grown very close in the last few weeks.

"You just don't get it, Ziva," he says adamantly, leaning over the sink to rid his mouth of the toothpaste that kept his words unintelligible. "Guys, we're sensitive about this kind of thing. And whoever says forty is the new thirty is lying to all our faces."

"Why would you want to be thirty again?" I ask. "I did not know you then, but the people who did tell me things. You were insufferable, apparently."

He smiles sarcastically.

"So I suppose you really have not changed all _that _much," I tease, but he refuses to give me the satisfaction of a genuine smile. He will not win this battle. I decided this quite some time ago, when I realized what kind of effect this day would have on him. I smile sweetly, blocking his way as he tries to leave. "Tony, I want you to listen to me very closely. Can you do this for me?"

He sighs. "Yeah, let's have it."

"It is my understanding that men care about their age because they think that women do," I observe absently. "They believe we care about wrinkles, hair, and muscle."

He chuckles dryly. "And you're here to tell me they don't?"

"No, we do," I assure him, trailing my finger slowly up his arm. "I absolutely _love _a man with a little… fur on him. Especially you, because I love touching it. I love your wrinkles, tiny as they are. The laugh lines around your eyes give your face character, and they make you look as kind as I know you to be. And as for muscle…" I laugh, smoothing my hands over his chest. "Believe me, Tony. You have nothing to be concerned about."

"You're just saying that to cheer me up."

"Is it working?"

"Maybe," he admits stubbornly. "Tell me something nice about my eyes."

This time, I cannot help but laugh out loud.

"Hurry up and get dressed before your protégé arrives," I tell him, stepping aside. "While I appreciate all your strutting, Jolie may not. We should refrain from traumatizing her so soon."

"How kind of you," he mutters bitterly and marches into the bedroom. "You know, some women make their husbands _feel _better when they're upset. Just food for thought."

"I tried that approach," I reply innocently as I follow him, "You did not seem to go for it."

"Try harder."

"I promise to do my best when you get home tonight," I say softly, wrapping my arms around his waist and pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades. "Now go on, before Jolie comes up here and starts looking for you."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm going," he says, pulling on a shirt and kissing me on his way out of the room.

"I love you," I tell him easily, "Have a good birthday."

"Love you, too," he replies and then he is on his way out.

He will love me much more, I am sure, when he returns tonight to find his gift. The 58-inch plasma television is being delivered in a few hours, where it will be waiting for him in our newly renovated living room. It put a sizeable dent in the money Liraz left for us, but it is nothing we could not handle. In addition to his entertainment pleasure, I also have a tiny bag tucked away in the closet that contains a few scraps of lascivious lace that he will be quite pleased to discover.

We will see how he feels about thirty-eight then.

---

It is the middle of August when Jolie returns to school, and a corner of Tony's heart breaks and falls away. He has been dreading it for weeks, since she first mentioned the fact that she would returning soon. Finally, the day arrives. He watches her braid her hair, adjust her school uniform, and run off with the name of some young boy on her lips. She turns to wave once, and then she is gone from sight—up the steps of the school and through the doors. His days will be empty now, filled with home repairs until Jolie returns in the afternoons. He misses her already.

"She is only going to school," I assure him, "She will come back every afternoon, dying to see you. Just like she always has."

"Yeah, I know," he says sadly. "It just won't be the same without her, that's all."

"I am sure she will miss you, too," I tell him, stretching up to kiss his cheek.

"Maybe," he says and his mouth twists into a worried grimace. "And who was this Stefan kid? She's only been talking about him, what? A week? And now she's just taking off to see him like they're star-crossed lovers or something."

"Young love, you know," I say with a wry smile. "It catches everyone, sooner or later."

"Love?" he questions, his face draining of color. "She's ten, for crying out loud! What does she know about any of that?"

"You would be surprised…"

"Oh, God," he swears, shaking his head. "I don't want to hear this."

"You act like her father," I say, smiling and leading him away from the school.

"Are you kidding?" he jokes, "Henri was practically shoving her out the door. Are parents supposed to be that excited to get rid of their kids?"

"Oh, yes," I say knowingly. "You are attached to Jolie because you do not see her every second of every day. Henri, on the other hand, gets to see the obnoxious preteen while you only see the precocious child who adores you. He loves her more than life, of course, but it is not the same relationship."

"Yeah, okay," he says painfully, leading us back in the direction of our home. "So what are you doing for lunch?"

"Well, I am meeting my lover at one… if you can wait until he is done, I am sure we can work something out."

"Ha-ha," he says sarcastically. "Not funny right now."

"Oh, you are too sensitive," I say, lightly slapping his arm. "I will make you a deal. I will make that cannelloni you like so much for dinner if you promise to cheer up. I will ask Henri if Jolie can have dinner with us, and everything will be perfectly normal."

"Ooh," he says, licking his lips. "I do love your cannelloni. Deal."

"The cheering up starts now," I remind him, waiting at a street corner until we can safely cross. "You are good with her, you know. Jolie, I mean."

"What?"

"You have developed quite a connection with her," I observe as we begin to walk to the other side of the road. "The two of you get along quite well, considering that you were so reluctant to spend time with her when we first arrived here. McGee used to make jokes about how terrible you were with children."

"Jolie isn't a child," he defends sourly. "She's… I don't know. She's just her."

"You are close, Tony," I say kindly. "It is a very good thing. I think it is a beneficial relationship for both of you. You are a good role model for her, and I do think she has managed to teach you the virtue of patience."

"I'm going to miss her."

"Tony, I keep telling you she will only be gone a few hours!"

"No, I'm not talking about that," he says and lowers his voice. "I mean, when Gibbs brings us home."

I stop, surprised. We never talk about this. Truthfully, I have not considered going home in weeks. It seems distant now, like a forgotten dream at the very back of our memories. Every so often we get letters from the team, when Martin deems it safe to hand them over to us. We do not get the opportunity to send them anything in return, but Martin is always sure to send our love when he speaks with Gibbs. McGee's new novel came out weeks ago, and we raced through the pages. We were happy with it, all considered. Tommy and Lisa were at work, bickering and casting flirtatious glances at each other. In that sense, I suppose, it was like a part of us really were doing what we were supposed to be.

"Hey," he says, prodding into my thoughts, "You got quiet."

"I know," I say softly. "But it is starting to feel like we may never get home again."

"I think that too, sometimes," he confesses, sighing heavily. "There are times lately when I think that staying here forever wouldn't be so bad." He looks over at me guiltily. "Is that wrong of me?"

"No," I assure him, "No, it is not. We are comfortable here. We are happy. There is no reason to feel guilty for wanting to stay."

"Just checking."

I go to work that morning and Tony goes back to painting the bathroom, splattering himself with the tranquil lilac paint we agreed on two weeks ago. He says it will take the rest of the night to dry, but that it should be fine by morning. When I return to our home just after six o'clock in the evening, he and Jolie are tearing up the living room by playing the guitar video game that Tony enjoys so much. Tony is on his knees, thoroughly playing up a solo, and Jolie is jumping up and down on the new couch to the beat of her bass part. They each give me a distracted hello as I walk in the door, and I smile on my way to the kitchen.

For another afternoon, everything is right in the world.

---

It's late August when Armand comes home and tells Ziva that he and his girlfriend have broken up. He storms in the door during dinner, causing us both to jump out of our skin and reach for the guns neither of us wear anymore. He throws his backpack down on the chair and paces restlessly, muttering in halting French. Hanging out with Jolie has done a lot of good with my French, but I'm useless when he insists on speaking it so quickly. I look hastily over to Ziva, who translates under her breath. Apparently, Etienne had found someone else. An older someone else, according to Ziva.

"Hey, kid," I say, "Calm down a second. Take a deep breath."

"Armand!"

He ignores me, but as soon as Ziva's voice penetrates his little bubble he stops and looks up at her with big eyes that look like they're going to spring tears any second now. She walks over and puts her arms around his neck, drawing him closer. It takes him a second, but he hugs her back. He buries his face in her shoulder and the waterworks start. I know enough about him to know that he wasn't going to take this very well—he's a romantic, this kid. He had a lot of love and a lot of fight in him, and no idea what to do with it.

Ziva leads him over to the couch and he furiously rubs at his eyes, a flush staining his cheeks. He's embarrassed now to be seen like this, despite the fact that he knows Ziva and I couldn't care less. She pats his back while he cleans his glasses and gets his breathing under control, while I pull up the chair to sit in front of him.

"She told me she loved me," he says and it kills me to see the kid so lost. "I do not understand what changed so suddenly. How could she have changed her mind?"

"You cannot explain these kinds of things so easily, Armand," Ziva tells him softly, her voice slow and compassionate. "It is easier if you wish the best for her, and hope she can do the same for you."

"That is not an answer," he says bitterly. "That is not anything."

"It is all you can do," she replies frankly. "There will be more times like this one, unless you are very lucky. If you learn to deal with them correctly now, the others will not hurt nearly so much. I promise you this."

He sniffles a bit. "Maybe."

"She's got a point, you know," I say and he looks up at me. "No, I'm serious. It took one hell of a break up before Maria and I even considered each other. If I hadn't known how to handle that one, we may never have gotten together. You remember that fight we had, when we first got here?"

"Yes."

"Well, everything worked out that time because we took the time to learn how to deal with it," I tell him honestly. "You have to go through a lot before you find the right person. Sometimes the experiences are good, sometimes they're bad, but you won't get to the real thing without them."

"But how will I know when it is real?" he asks desperately. "It felt real this time, with Etienne, and it wasn't!"

"It's just something you know, kid," I say, shrugging. "No one can tell you that. It's something you're going to have to figure out for yourself."

"Pointless advice," he grumbles but he's calmer now.

"Look," I say, leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees. "Do you know that café around the block? The one I always take your sister to?" He nods and I pull out my wallet and offer a twenty-euro note that he takes with no small amount of reluctance. "Well, go there. Go order something unhealthy, and ask for Jovianne."

"Jovianne?"

"She's the waitress we always have," I tell him. "She's good. She'll take care of you."

"You do not have to," he says, trying to hand me back the money.

"No, really," Ziva says, pushing his hand back down. "We insist. Please do this, if only for us if you do not really want to."

"Yes, fine," he says quietly and tucks it into his pocket.

"Good," Ziva remarks, satisfied, and stands up to give him a long hug on his way out the door. She whispers something French in his ear, something I can't understand, but he laughs. He turns away from her, still smiling, and shakes my hand. We wave him off, making sure he starts off in the right direction before we close the door behind him.

"Poor kid," I say, heading back to the kitchen. "That must suck."

"Who is Jovianne?" Ziva asks, taking her seat next to me at our small kitchen table.

"I told you already," I reply, "Mine and Jolie's waitress."

"And what is she like?" she asks with a glimmer of intuition in her eye and I grin right back at her.

"Tall redhead, big green eyes, just around eighteen years old," I say with a wink. "Almost guaranteed to put the spring back in Armand's step."

Ziva laughs, throwing her head back.

"I should have known that would be your advice," she says, taking a drink from her wine. "The DiNozzo method in action."

"Hey," I reply, leaning across the table, "You haven't complained yet."

She steals a kiss before reaching for her fork again.

"Nor do I intend to."

---

It's early September when we realize that Henri has been sneaking off with Ume, an enchanting Japanese patroness of his store. She's also a widow, and has an intense love of Wordsworth and French men. She wears her hair in an impossibly long braid down her back, and always dresses in the richest silk money can buy. Henri blushes when he talks about her, and we can tell they're happy. We've met her briefly, and she really is perfectly suited to Henri. She's modest but direct, beautiful in that ethereal sort of way, and very obviously intelligent. Ziva and I are happy for them. It's really too bad his children aren't.

Jolie is shell-shocked, mostly. I don't think it ever occurred to her that her father could be with someone outside her mother. Her eyes get all big whenever Ume is mentioned, and her mouth opens a little. I've seen her make the same faces at her math homework. She'll come around to the idea, I'm sure, once she gets her mind around the situation. I think she wants her dad to be happy, even if that means turning to another woman who understands him.

Martin is calm and supportive. He understands that his sister has been gone for years, and he very subtly gives Henri the nod of approval.

Armand, on the other hand, is on the warpath. It's understandable, really, considering that he had far more time with their mother than Jolie did. He was closer to her, too, according to his sister. Her memory is the freshest in his mind, and so it's really hard for him to accept his father's choices. They don't speak for two weeks, unless it's absolutely necessary. Henri wrings his hands whenever his son is nearby, and Armand grinds his teeth in reply. It's probably the most stressed out I've seen this family since we arrived.

Things come to a head one night, when Ziva decides to throw a dinner party for everyone. Since our little kitchen is barely comfortable for the two of us, Henri lets her use his kitchen. Their house is a few blocks away, in a nicer neighborhood. She makes a point of taking Henri aside the day before and inviting Ume. He responds with big eyes that mirror his daughter's and a stuttering, polite refusal. He doesn't want to start anything, and I get it. It's highly unlikely that anything about the dinner would be even remotely pleasant if Ume showed up, nice as she is. Ziva, however, wouldn't be swayed. She walks away from the conversation with Henri's promise to bring her.

That night is just as tense as we all knew it would be.

Ziva's cooking is astounding, we're all dressed to the nines, and the two of us take on the job of host and hostess despite the fact that we're not in our own home. I know Ziva's more comfortable in her own head than in trying to keep everyone happy and comfortable, but she does an amazing job with what she's been given. Everyone gives polite responses and then looks straight down at their plates, hoping to God that they're not called on to answer again. It isn't until after dessert that Ziva realizes she's not getting anywhere.

In a stunning move of trickery and manipulation, she ropes Henri and Armand into clearing the table and doing the dishes. Henri nervously gives in, Armand glares and grumbles, but they do what they're told. Once inside the kitchen, Ziva latches the door behind them and offers me a cunning smile.

God, I love this woman.

It doesn't take them long to figure out that they've been had. I hear rattling and cursing from the door, from both father and son. I cover Jolie's ears while Ziva and Ume exchange mildly amused glances. The screaming starts within five minutes after that, and then twenty minutes go by before silence reigns again. When we open the doors, Armand is wrapped in his father's arms. Tears shine in both their eyes and Jolie rushes over to join in the group hug, her own tears quickly forming. The loss of their wife and mother was crippling, but a smile stretches across my face when I realize just how much they've had to do to get to this point of cautious optimism. Inspired, I wrap my own arm around Ziva's shoulders and she smiles up at me.

Ume stands awkwardly to the side, until Armand breaks away and reaches for her hand. In an unexpected show of maturity, he takes her hand and bows deeply before standing back up and placing a small kiss on her cheek. He apologizes for his behavior and she offers him a wide, excited smile. Henri takes her hand, kissing the top of it lovingly. Never one to be left out, Jolie enthusiastically wraps her arms around the woman and then all is well.

The next time we all sit down to dinner, no one does anything but smile.

---

It is late September when the winds shift, bringing in cooler air and the subtle indicators of fall. The leaves begin changing, and the days are shorter. It rains more often, and I enjoy it. Tony complains because it means he has to patch up the roof again, but the soft patter in the background always puts me at ease. We usually take walks around this time, but he is having his movie night with Jolie and I opted to go by myself. I am sitting on a park bench, alone, watching the sunset when my thoughts once again turn to the small white box tucked discreetly into my purse. I will open it later, once I return home. The idea it represents scares me and excites me at the same time.

It is late September, nearing dark, when I realize that I may be pregnant.


	19. Questions

**Author's Note:**

**WOW.**

**That's all I can say, really, when it comes to all the amazing feedback on that last chapter. I was kind of insecure about it going in, but then you all reassured me to the point of pride. I wrote this chapter in no time flat, simply high on reviews. I do appreciate every single generous word, and I hope this story continues to deserve your attention.**

**All mistakes are mine--I'm without my Mina, and she usually catches all my typos. If you find any that are too glaring to overlook, they're all my fault.**

**Chapter Nineteen**

**"Questions"**

"John?" Jolie asks while I put away the remnants of tonight's pizza pig-out.

"Yeah?" I reply distractedly, listening to her climb up on the table in spite of what I've told her eight million times about the legs. "Hey, come on. Off the table. Climb up on the counter if you want to climb somewhere."

"Fine…" she groans and pulls up a chair so she can sit down on the edge of the counter, next to the sink where I'm doing the dishes. "Where did Maria go?"

"In Spanish," I instruct and she sighs dramatically. She repeats the question in Spanish and I nod my head in approval. She's gotten much better at her verbs. "On a walk."

"But it's starting to rain," she argues and I pass her a plate and a dish towel.

"I know. She'll be in soon," I tell her calmly, "Now get to work. We'll both be in trouble if she comes home to a sink full of dirty dishes."

I spare her a smile and she smiles right back. Putting the issue at the back of my mind, I start working on getting the marinara sauce off the plates. Ziva will kill me if I put them away dirty. I only needed to learn that lesson once. Jolie acts as my second in command, drying them and putting them in the cabinet as we go. Out of curiosity I check the clock above the stove and realize that it's nearing ten o'clock now. Ziva's never out this late. I ignore the small clenching of my gut and go back to the dishes, assuring myself that she's fine.

Henri picks Jolie up at ten-thirty, apologizing left and right for his tardiness. Something about the accountant for the store, or something like that. My ears are buzzing too loud for me to notice his exact words. Jolie waves goodbye, already yawning, and I shut the door behind them. I wait for footsteps, but there are none. Everything is quiet, disturbingly so. Where is she? I make myself sick thinking about all the people in the world who want our heads right now, and suddenly our carefree lives seem stupid. I should have gone with her—I shouldn't have let her go alone.

My phone is already open in my hand, my finger on Ziva's speed dial, when I hear heels ascending the stairs. I yank the door open to find Ziva's shocked face, hiding underneath her bright red umbrella. She looks at me like I've lost my mind, and maybe I have.

"What is the matter with you?" she asks, stepping inside when I hold the door for her. "You look like you have seen a ghost."

"You're late," I accuse gently, preparing to make a joke about her curfew, but she whirls around and faces me with wide eyes.

"How did you know that?"

"I own a watch, Zee," I say incredulously. She visibly calms herself and shrugs out of her coat, laying it over the back of the chair. She lays her purse down on the chair, eyeing it strangely. "What's the matter with _you_? You're acting funny."

"You are probably right," she replies easily, stepping out of her shoes and walking over to the couch. She sinks down on it and crosses her right leg over her knee before looking up at me with a veiled, mildly confusing expression. It's been a long time since she's hidden herself from me, and I hate it just as much now as I did then. "Come sit."

"What's going on?" I ask, staying exactly where I am. She doesn't answer. "Come on, Ziva. You're scaring me."

"Please, just… come sit by me," she says, taking a measured breath. This time I do as she asks. I sit close, but I fight the urge to take her hand. In the end, she scoots and little closer and clasps my wrist with her tiny fingers. She looks up at me with tired eyes and she sighs, shaking her head. "I wish I knew what to say."

"Let's start with the beginning, shall we?" I say with a weak smile and she nods. My heart picks up the pace a bit while my brain struggles to figure just what the hell is going on here.

"Right, the beginning," she says nervously. It takes her a second to meet my eyes but then she shakes her head. "There is no beginning, really, so I think the direct approach will be the best."

"Okay…"

"I may be pregnant, Tony."

I blink as the words seep in the corners of my perception. I know what they mean when they're all apart, of course, but together they're another ballgame entirely.

"What?" I ask stupidly, like she'd spoken one of the many foreign languages that we don't have in common. She stares right back at me, expectantly. "Can you repeat the question?"

"There was no question," she says and it's not hard to notice the edges of her patience starting to slip. "You heard me correctly the first time. I am almost a week late, and I may be pregnant."

All the air rushes out of my lungs at once. My head starts to swim perilously.

"I can't breathe," I tell her, "Why can't I breathe?"

"Come here," she says, and leans over like she's going to hug me. Instead, I feel her palm connect painfully with the back of my head. I haven't felt that in a while. Maybe I've become a masochist over the years, but it feels good in that familiar kind of way.

"Get it together, Tony. This is serious."

"You're telling me," I reply and meet her eyes. She seems surprisingly peaceful. A slight smile is turning up the corners of her mouth and I find myself leaning into her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "God, Zee. I'm sorry, but I don't know what to feel."

She laughs. "That makes two of us."

"Do you know for sure yet?"

"No," she replies, shaking her head. "The test is in my bag. I have not taken it yet, because I felt that this was something we should talk about beforehand. There are many… variables associated with this."

"It's still dangerous for us, even here," I assess and she nods in agreement. "We have no idea when we'll be able to get home, or if we ever will. It may never be safe."

"Can we give our child a life here?" she questions and I find myself smiling at the idea of _our _child. "He or she would be born here, and Martin would have to forge a great deal of paperwork so that they could live here. He or she would live as a Russo, with no idea of our past lives."

"What would Gibbs say?" I ask and this time she laughs for real, tilting her head back and letting the sound fill the room.

"Oh, I do not want to imagine that conversation," she says, leaning her head on my shoulder. "He will head slap us so hard our child will have to take care of us, instead."

"Abby would be thrilled, though," I say and she nods. "Between her and Magoo, we'd never have to worry about a babysitter. Ever. For the rest of our natural lives."

"We might have to fight for custody, actually," she laughs and I join her. I can see all these things in my mind, clear as day. These images all have to do with our old lives, though. It's fun to think of our family becoming our child's family, but right now that isn't possible.

"Still, it could be nice to have a little DiNozzo running around," I offer softly and she sits up to study me. "We'd be a bit cramped and all in this tiny apartment, but it wouldn't even matter for a few years. He could sleep in our room, with us."

"We would have to move eventually," she replies, obviously deep in thought. "A bigger house will be necessary after those few years are over."

"Definitely."

"You do not seem bothered by the idea," she observes, sounding surprised.

"Of what? Kids?" I ask and she nods. "I'm not getting any younger, Zee. I've always liked the idea of kids, but I never found a woman I wanted to have them with. Having kids is a commitment that's a lot more permanent than marriage, and it's a serious risk. Now, with you, I like the idea more. A lot more." I take a deep breath. "I know we're in a bad situation here, but I think we can do it. Between the two of us, we'll be able to keep the kid safe."

"And if the test is negative?" she asks, tilting her head down.

"Then we'll take it as a sign and be more careful in the future," I say easily. "Then, maybe when everything is back to normal, we can try again. For real."

"You are much calmer about this than I expected," she sighs. "I envy you. I feel like my mind is going in a thousand different directions faster than I can stop it."

"It'll be fine, I promise," I tell her solemnly, "No matter what happens."

She nods and gets up off the couch, reaching for her purse. She disappears into the hallway with the white box in her hand, heading for the bathroom. I follow her once I hear the door close, finally letting my thoughts race.

A kid.

My kid.

Mine and _Ziva's _kid.

Maybe it's naïve, but suddenly I'm picturing a white picket fence and barbecues for the Fourth of July weekend. Christmas and Hanukah wrapped up in one. Cute little kids with Ziva's dark hair and my eyes… beautiful. Grandpa Gibbs teaching them how to sand a boat. Maybe Abby and the nuns could teach them to bowl. I don't really know what McGee would have to offer other than a lot of geek speak and a couple of books, but I'll still let him hang around and all. It's the least I can do for the probie, since he's my best friend and all.

The ideas flash through my head faster than I can stop them, and I'm actually shocked to realize that this is something I want. I've spent the better part of twenty years learning how to avoid commitment and family, and I've found myself yearning for it. I have no idea why I found it so detestable all those years.

I sit down and lean back against the door to the bathroom, the pressure on the other side telling me that Ziva's doing the same thing. Maybe it's my imagination, but I think I can feel the tension radiating from the other side of the door. She's stressed out, for good reason, but I still want her to be okay.

"So I was thinking," I start playfully.

"Oh yes?" she says, her voice close but muffled by the door.

"If it's a boy, we'll name him Anthony," I say and she scoffs.

"The DiNozzo tradition, I expect. And if it is a girl?"

"Antonia."

"You cannot be serious," she says, but I hear the laugh that's close to the surface of her voice. I can hear her smiling.

"Do you have a better idea?" I ask sarcastically, implying that there couldn't possibly be a better idea than naming all our children after me.

"I was hoping for something Hebrew," she says, exhaling loudly. "They will already have Italian surnames. I would like something of my cultural heritage with them, as well."

I smile. "I like that idea."

"I wish I knew what I wanted," she sighs. She suddenly sounds exhausted, and I sympathize. This hasn't exactly been the calmest night we've had recently. "Do you know what I mean?"

"I do," I reply honestly. "We've never done anything the easy way, have we?"

She laughs. "Not in four long years."

"You'd think we would have learned our lesson by now," I say.

"Not us."

"How long does the test take?" I ask, clearing my throat and feeling my heart speed up a little.

"Fifteen minutes."

"How long has it been?"

She pauses before letting out a shaky breath. "Twenty."

"Well?" I ask. "Open the door, let me in, and let's get this show on the road."

I pull myself off the floor and when she opens the door, I notice that her eyes are red. I hate seeing her this close to tears, and I know she's upset because she's afraid. We both are. I pull her to me and our lips come together instinctually, like they always do. My Ziva—the confident, strong ninja goddess—is shaking like a leaf. I pull away and kiss the top of her nose, simply because I know it annoys her. She wrinkles her nose and glares at me, just like I knew she would. The sight, I think, reassures us both that nothing is wrong. It gives us the fractional confidence that allows us to turn and walk the few feet over to the sink, where the little pink stick is sitting. It's turned away—we can't see the result.

"On three?" I offer and she nods. I take her hand while the other reaches for the object in question. She steps forward a little and picks it up, turning it to face her. Her shoulders slump moments later, and her grip on my hand falters.

"What is it?"

"Negative," she sighs, throwing the test in the trash can next to the sink.

---

Tony reads me to sleep that night.

He takes the book of Dickinson poems from my nightstand and props himself up on the headboard, taking me into his arms. I rest my head against his chest and throw my arm over him, using his body to heat the chill that has penetrated my body. His presence fights the lingering sadness I feel, steadfastly chasing it away. His voice is low and melodic in a way that surprises me—I have never heard him like this before. It is as though, for lack of a better phrase, he is getting lost in the words. His appreciation soothes me; it is the same reason I read her so devotedly. The book was a gift from Henri, and I will thank him for it forever.

The words go on and on, as midnight comes and goes. He repeats a few poems, the ones that he finds particularly enjoyable. There are a few moments when I think I may fall asleep, but then I realize that I do not want to miss these few precious minutes with him. It is then that I hold him a little tighter, and he just keeps on reading. This is just another time that we need each other, in whatever way possible. Finally, as three o'clock nears, he sets the book aside and turns the lamp off. The room settles into darkness and his hand slowly strokes my back.

"Can I confess something?" I ask, my voice muffled by his skin. For a moment I think he has not heard my question, because he remains silent until he sighs and pulls me a little closer.

"It's okay," he says softly, "I'm disappointed, too."


	20. Collisions

**Author's Note:**

**Dear, dear readers. I know it's been far too long since you've heard from me – one month exactly, if I'm not mistaken – but it's because this chapter and I had words. Granted, not many, but we went round and round. There was a lot of silent treatment involved, so I'm very sorry if this doesn't quite live up to your expectations. If nothing else, I just hope it's not too difficult to read.**

**On the bright side, I got into graduate school. :D**

**For my beautiful, wonderful, amazing Mina. She brings me peace in the middle of the storm. **

**Chapter Twenty**

"**Collisions"**

"God, I'm starting to love it here."

The words catch me off guard – mainly because I hadn't been thinking them – but the more I examine them the more I believe them to be true. I do love it here. October is in full swing, filling the city with picturesque scatterings of leaves over sidewalks and cooler weather as the sun goes down earlier than it used to. Ziva and I decided to take our walk elsewhere tonight and I'm glad. I'm completely calm and happy here, feeling the light mist on my face from the fountain in front of La Defense. The sun is falling and the lights are out, illuminating all the pedestrians as they circle the monument. The air is filled with the sounds of water and the murmur of conversations in every language imaginable while the scents of rain and flowers waft around on the breeze. Somewhere, someone is singing La Vie en Rose and it takes everything in me not to sing along with them.

"So I was thinking," I start, looking down, but Ziva's eyes are on the horizon rather than on me. She's far away from here. I've gotten used to that look in the last two weeks. "Hey, Zee. You with me?"

"Yes," she says absently, "Go on."

"I was thinking we should do something one of these weekends," I say and pause for a reply that doesn't come before carrying on. "Maybe we should take Jolie to Disneyland or something. You know, the three of us. Make a whole weekend of it. You don't think she's too old for it, do you?"

Silence.

"Yeah, me either," I say, shoving my hands in the pockets of my jacket. Between Ziva and the wind, it's getting a bit too cold for me out here. "But still, I think it could be fun."

Ziva walks on, sipping at her tea, but she doesn't act like she's heard me. It's like I'm talking to a brick wall.

"Oh, yes, Tony," I say, raising my voice to a comic falsetto, "That sounds like a great idea! You are such a brilliant, handsome man."

I laugh before switching back to my real voice.

"Why yes, Ziva, I am. I'm happy you noticed."

She stiffens beside me but she says nothing.

"Do you know what I think we should do?" I ask myself, still imitating her. She doesn't grace me with even a glance. "Well, I think we should go home and watch the entire Godfather Trilogy, from beginning to end. No breaks. I know how that makes you happy, my love."

"Okay, that is enough," she finally interjects. "I have deciphered your point."

"That I like the Godfather?"

"No, that you want me to reply," she says simply. "Besides, that would take us all night to watch from beginning to end. I could not possibly do it."

"What's on your mind?" I ask calmly. "You've been distracted lately."

She sighs. "It is nothing. Please do not worry."

"Well, it's about two weeks too late for that," I scoff and pull her hand into mine. I feel the muscles in her arm tense and it hurts, despite the fact that I know her tension has nothing to do with me. Or least I think it doesn't.

"Tony, please…"

"I know when you're pushing me away," I say quietly, hoping that no one around us hears this conversation. "I've seen it more times now than I ever really wanted to. Before that was okay, because we were partners and I had no right to invade your personal life."

"And now?"

"Now I am your personal life," I say and offer an unassuming smile.

"I guess you are," she says with the ghost of a smile. As happy as I am to see it, she still looks sadder than I would like her to be.

"You're killing me here, Zee," I beg, forgetting all thoughts of dignity. "Come on, let me in. I don't want to lose you."

"You are not losing me," she says tiredly but I can tell she means it. That's a load off my chest. "It has only been a long two weeks. My mind has not been calm recently. Since… since that night, I cannot seem to focus."

At first I want to ask what night she's talking about, but it doesn't take too much thought to realize what she means. She means _that _night.

"Oh, okay," I say unsurely, not knowing what exactly she's been thinking. "Well, what about it?"

"Just… possibilities, I suppose. They are all I think about." She grimaces. "I know that I am not making any sense."

"No, it's okay. I do too, sometimes," I admit. She looks up at me with doubt in her eyes, like she half expects me to be lying to make her feel better. "You know, hair color. Eye color. Names… personalities. I've thought of all of it now, for better or for worse."

She smiles. "Really?"

"Duh," I say earnestly. "Zee, I know this was probably a way different experience for you, but it affected me too. A lot more than I was expecting, actually."

"Did you mean it when you said that one day you would like to try again?" she asks softly, standing still in front of the water. Her eyes are glued to the lights as they ripple across the surface of the pond.

"Absolutely," I say, without any hesitation. I don't know why she keeps expecting me to change my mind suddenly, now that our almost-child is temporarily out of the picture. "One of these days, when our lives calm down for good, we'll start over. Real wedding, real house, and one day a real family. I mean that."

She laughs, and I hear the tell-tale hint of tears just below the surface.

"Anthony DiNozzo, the original ladies' man, promising marriage," she says a tad sarcastically, not looking up from the water. "You have changed from when I first met you, do you know that?"

"What do you mean?"

"The first time I met you in person, you had been fantasizing about Agent Todd just after her death," she gave me a hint of a smile. "You proceeded to flirt with every woman who crossed your path over the next several years."

"And you were a crazy ninja chick who intimidated the crap out of me," I add and Ziva snorts in laughter. "No, I'm serious. You scared me. Who the hell tells people that they can kill a guy eighteen different ways with a paperclip?"

She laughs a little harder.

"Perhaps I would not have told you that if you did not make me want to give you the experience first-hand," she says, narrowing her eyes at me.

"Gee," I reply sarcastically, "Thanks for that."

"Well, you asked."

"It all worked out in the end though, right?" I ask, looking down at her. She turns those smoldering brown eyes on me and I'm putty in her hands, just like I always have been.

"Eh," she deflects, "I probably could have done better."

"Hey," I say, taken aback. "Easy."

"Do not be so sensitive," she says, bumping gently against me with her shoulder. "Surely you know by now just how much I care for you."

"We should head home," I say suddenly and she looks up at me, confused. "I'll run you a scalding hot bath, pull out that shiraz we've been saving for a special occasion, and we'll see what we can find in the way of food."

She smiles. "And then?"

"And then," I muse, pretending to think, "And then, maybe if you're lucky, I'll let you have your naughty way with me."

"Oh, I cannot contain myself," she laughs but pulls my tie until we're eye to eye. She kisses my forehead and pulls back. "But I do agree. We should go home."

"I'm game," he replies, "But we have to stop by the kids' house first, because Jolie has my 'Maltese Falcon' DVD and I want to watch it this weekend."

"It cannot wait until tomorrow?"

I stare. "Did you not hear me say 'Maltese Falcon'?"

"I should have known better than to ask," she sighs and nods her head. "Alright. We will stop by their house first and then walk home."

I wave my arm in the direction of the road a few yards away, where taxis line the sidewalk dramatically enough to have it look like a large streak of yellow from a distance.

"Milady," I say dramatically, "Your carriage awaits."

---

Tonight is one long, long night in a string of many more just like it. Midterms are approaching, and every student on campus is panicking. Me included. My Foreign Literature exam will prove to be the most challenging, and despite Jovianne's encouragement I feel no confidence in the upcoming performance. If I am lucky, I will be able to receive a B. I hope.

It is almost ten in the evening when I return home from the university, only to find Jolie on my bed. I have told her time and time again to stay out of my room, but does she listen to me? No. I am about to yell at her, berate her for the intrusion, but I realize that she has something in her hands. It takes me a second or two to realize what she is holding, but once I do I lunge for the phone I had forgotten in my hurry to get out the door this morning. She squeals and rolls off the side, ducking from me.

"You little brat!" I yell, "Give me my phone!"

"I was just looking," she insists impudently, all the while crawling out of my grasp. "Let go of me!"

"Not until you give me the phone!"

"Die," she orders dramatically before climbing to her feet and running from the room. I hear her footsteps retreat down the hallway. Grunting and angry, I pull myself off the floor and take off after her. I run blindly and stop just in time to keep from running straight into her. She is paused at the top of the stairwell, staring down into our living room. I have no idea what stopped her or why, but I yank my phone from her hand before she realizes her own vulnerability. When she does not react, I stare down and see our father talking with some men in the middle of the room. The one closest to him is smaller, with graying hair and a wide stance. The other man, the one closest to us, is taller and has much more muscle. His head is shaved and there are tattoos there of symbols that I do not recognize.

"What are you staring at?"

"Look," she says, keeping her voice at a low whisper that I can just barely hear. I follow her pointing finger to the man opposite our father, dressed in black with his hands in his pockets. Papa is talking to the other man, the smaller one, on the other side of the room.

"What about him?"

"He's wearing a gun," she says, and this time I can feel her shaking next to me. "You can see the imprint of it in his shirt, above his belt."

I look closer, and she is right. The shadows coalesce to form the imprint of something that anyone in their right mind would recognize. My lungs freeze for a moment or two before letting me take a much needed gasp of air. I am sure this meeting is nothing, and I would tell Jolie as much if I did not have my own doubts. The question remains, why would Papa be discussing something with men who wear guns?

"What is he doing?" I ask, more to myself than to her. She shrugs.

"I do not know, but he looks scared." She looks up at me with wide blue eyes that remind me of when she was much, much smaller. "What do you think we should do?"

"Maybe they are only police," I offer unconvincingly, trying to keep my heart from beating out of my chest. "Perhaps they are only here about a traffic violation. You know how much Papa enjoys speeding."

"I don't think they are, Armand," she says quietly. "Why would the police hide their guns?"

Before I can think of an answer, the man answers for both of us. He nods his head, and the other man hits Papa hard enough in the jaw to knock him back, almost into the fireplace. Jolie starts to scream, but I jerk her back with my hand over her mouth before anyone can realize that we are here. I drag her back to her room, the farthest to the back of the house, but I do not close the door. The men downstairs would surely hear the sound. We listen to more scuffling and cursing downstairs as we move, and I open her closet door. I clear the floor of her dozens of shoes and force Jolie inside.

"Stay in here, and do not move until I come get you," I say quietly, and I stop her before she can argue with me. "Please, Jolie, for once listen to me. I want you to stay in here, until I tell you it is safe. If I do not come get you in thirty minutes, climb out your bedroom window and go find help. Do you understand me?"

She nods.

"Good girl."

Before I can close the closet door, she reaches out and grabs my hand. Tears are building, and it has been a long time since I have seen my sister cry. For a ten-year-old girl, she is quite tough.

"What is it?"

"What are you going to do?" she asks tearfully, keeping her voice thankfully quiet.

"I'm going to go help Papa," I reply and then I shut the door again, before she can argue. I hang back for a few minutes, just to see if she will try to disobey and come out anyway, but she doesn't. She actually appears to have listened to me. I make a mental note to write down the day and time, but somehow I have a hard time believing that I will soon forget it.

The men spy me as soon as I begin to descend the stairs. One still has Papa pressed against the wall, and the other one snatches me up before I can say a word. I keep my mouth safely shut, and resolve to stay quiet until I am spoken to. The larger man shoves me into the couch, and I am soon joined by Papa. He is breathing harshly through what I am sure is a broken nose, and looking at me sorrowfully. I give him a small smile, intending to let him know that Jolie is safe.

"Your father has not been nearly so helpful as we would like," the smaller man says condescendingly, sitting on the coffee table in directly in front of us. "His information has been rather… sparse. Perhaps you can help us instead."

I say nothing. It seems they have already made up their minds in what they want from us.

"Do you have a good eye for faces, boy?" he asks, pulling a folded piece of paper from his chest pocket. I nod. "Good. Then you should be able to tell me what I want to know."

He unwraps the paper and shows me two pictures, side by side, of John and Maria. I look up at him, confused.

"So you do know them," he says, obviously pleased.

"I do not understand," I say, and look over at Papa. His expression is blank.

"The demand is a simple one," he says with a large smile. "I want you to tell me where I can find two very dangerous fugitives from the law. You will tell me what their aliases are, and where I can find them now."

I say nothing. He cannot mean what I think he does.

"I want to tell me everything you know about Anthony DiNozzo and Ziva David."


	21. Consequences

**Author's Note:**

**Oh, you guys. **

**I was so thrilled to be hearing from all of you that I rushed right through this chapter, and I'm already working on the next. See what your kind reviews do to me? They keep me going. :D**

**Thanks to Mina, for taking time out of her hellish week to give this a once-over. **

**Chapter Twenty-One**

"**Consequences"**

"Looks like we're here," Tony says casually, handing the driver the appropriate amount of cash and climbing out of the cab. He offers me his hand and helps me out, taking a deep breath. "I hope the kids are still up. If Jolie is asleep she'll be mad that I took the DVD back without asking."

"It looks as though she is going to make it difficult for you," I say, noticing a small body climbing along the side of the house. From this distance, it looks like she is sneaking out her bedroom window. I wonder if there is a boy somewhere planning on meeting her. She is a bit young to be playing Romeo and Juliet.

"What are you talking about?"

"See for yourself," I say, nodding in the girl's direction. This is hardly the oddest stunt that she has pulled, and so I am not too concerned. Tony, however, is not nearly so nonchalant. His eyes protrude from his head and he takes off at a run toward her, forcing me to follow. As we get closer, I realize that Jolie is struggling against the rose lattice that is braced along the side of the house and on the underside of her window. I hear her whimper and Tony reaches her first, holding out his arms to catch her when she loses her footing. She crashes into him, not quite knocking him to the ground.

"What in the hell were you thinking?" he cries, turning her around to face him once they have both gotten their footing back. "You could have killed yourself! What if I hadn't been here to catch you?"

"Tony," I say, putting a hand on his shoulder. He slows down for a second and notices the tears pouring freely down her face and her small, shaking body.

"Jolie, what is it?" he asks, his voice suddenly tight. "What's wrong?"

"There are men here," she whispers shakily. "They have Papa and Armand."

"Men?" I ask her, "What men?"

"They have guns."

My breath catches. I have a horrible feeling of foreboding that leaves little room for any doubt of who these men might be.

"Jolie, I need you to think really hard and tell me who these men were," I say gently, completely aware of terrifying this must be for her.

"I don't know when they got here, but they were talking to Papa and they hurt him," she says and hiccups. Tony pulls her closer. "Armand told me to hide in the closet until he came to get me, but he never came. He never came back for me."

She throws her arms around Tony's neck, sobbing hard enough to shake her entire body, and he looks up at me with an expression that mirrors my own fear. He motions with his eyes around the back of the house and I nod, motioning for him to stay there with her. I suddenly regret our decision to leave our weapons at home, but I am nothing if not resourceful. If Mossad really is here, they would not have brought an army. They would have wanted to remain invisible as long as possible so not to scare us into running. Then, when they had their trap set, a dozen officers would pounce. Since Jolie did not mention substantial amounts of dark soldiers, I have to assume that this is a scouting mission. They have received a tip as to our whereabouts, and my father has sent someone to check up on it.

I move through the night quickly and quietly, all of my training suddenly resurfacing in my hour of need. Despite the life of leisure I have been leading over the last few months, I am back in working order. I scan the perimeter of the house without encountering a problem, which leads me to believe that the big problems lie inside the house. They are temporarily out of my reach, but they will not be for long. I sprint back to Tony, where Jolie has finally gotten her tears out of her system. She looks up at me with big eyes, wanting answers.

"Can you tell me how many men there were, Jolie?" I ask, taking her hand and rubbing my thumb over the top. I hope she derives comfort from the gesture.

"Two."

"And that is all?"

"The only ones that I saw, yes," she says seriously, concentrating on her answers. Now that she feels safe, she is toughening up and ready to fight. She is brave, and reminds me a little of myself at her age. "One was big and scary, and the other was small and older. He was the boss, though, because he did all the talking. He's the one who… who hit Papa."

"That is very good that you were paying such close attention," I praise and she offers a tight smile in return. "Now, I want you to stay with John. I am going to talk to the men and see what they want. No one is going to hurt your father and brother while we are here. Understand?"

She nods.

"Good."

I leave as Tony shuffles her off to the side of the house, where the trees will provide ample cover while I work on finding out what is going on here and who we are dealing with. I move around the front instead of the back, peeking in the front window to find exactly what Jolie had described – two men holding Armand and Henri hostage. Henri looks like he has taken quite a few blows. His face is swollen, and blood is dripping from both his nose and lips. Armand looks untouched, thankfully. However, he seems to be getting the brunt of the questioning. From the confused look on his face, I have a feeling he is hearing the international fugitive version of mine and Tony's story. Hopefully he knows us well enough now to dismiss it. The bigger man I do not recognize, but I cannot see the smaller man's face. I will have to get a closer look later.

Deciding on a tentative plan, I make a significant amount of noise in the bushes below the window before sneaking out. Within seconds the bigger man throws the door open and closes it behind him, stepping outside with loud stomps of his heavy boots. He is obviously new and has not been trained on how to make himself invisible. I allow him a glimpse of my face and he recoils immediately, his brain undoubtedly making the connection between the small portion of my profile that he just saw and the wanted posters with which he has been indoctrinated in the last few months. He moves forward faster than I thought he would, but I am faster still. I dart around the side of the house, measuring his heavy footfalls and calculating just how far ahead I am. My heart pounds heavily in my chest and I feel the surge of adrenaline spur me on, rounding the corner to lie in waiting for him.

He does exactly what I wanted him to. I hear him grunting and breathing harshly as he follows me and just as he comes into sight my leg collides high on his chest. I feel the air being forced out of his lungs and he takes one gulp of air before coming back at me, face red and breathing heavily. I smirk right back at him, because he has no chance. He is strong, yes, but not very agile. I have size, skill, and agility on my side and it proves to work in my favor. For every blow he attempts to land, he gets three in return. When he crashes at my feet, I place my foot in the middle of chest and apply enough pressure to let him know I mean business.

"Who are you?" I ask in Hebrew and he looks directly at me, confirming my suspicions. He is Mossad.

"It doesn't matter," he replies in our native language.

"Not if you do not tell me what I want to know," I say and lean a little more on his sternum. He sucks in a breath and glares up at me from the damp grass. "Who. Sent. You?"

"You know who."

"Bastard!" I say, landing a well-placed kick to his ribs. I cracked one. This time, I am not gentle with him. I lean down and place my knee – along with all my body weight – on top of his chest. He grimaces and I grab his shirt to pull him up to me. "Tell me how you found us! Did Eli David send you here?!"

"Good guess," he says, smirking in between gasps of air. I start to lean down on him harder, just enough to deprive him of air until he passes out and gives us a clear shot at the man who remains inside, but suddenly the world shifts and I find myself being shoved into the ground. My hands are pinned above my head and his face is perilously close to my own.

"He said you would underestimate me," he preens, raking his eyes over me. I do not give him the pleasure of a wince or a squirm, simply because I do not want him to have that power over me. "It seems he was right. All I had to do was let you think you'd won."

I curse myself. I did not keep my guard where it ought to have been.

"So you are Ziva David, the prodigal assassin," he muses, studying me in a manner that I am not at all comfortable with. "Your father speaks highly of you."

"Somehow I doubt that," I sneer, trying to position my legs in a way that will regain some leverage. He uses his knee to crush my thigh, a wide smile on his face.

"Leaving so soon?" he asks. "But we just met."

Before I can answer, or attempt to wrestle myself from his grasp, a small voice calls out from the darkness.

"Hey! Leave her alone!"

Jolie's voice catches us both by surprise, but mine is more pleasant than my opponent's. The man's head whips around in the direction from which the sound came, and his slight surprise results in enough hesitation to give me the upper hand once again. My knee connects with his groin and his entire body jerks violently in pain. It takes only a moment to roll him off of me and onto the grass next to me, where I position him on his stomach and take his neck into the crook of my arm. He struggles and gasps for air, only to find none. A minute passes, then two, and I release him. I check his pulse – strong but arrhythmic – and climb off of him, looking for something nearby to restrain him with. I find some rope a few feet away, and I tie his hands and feet together behind his back. I tie it in such a way that he will not be able to wiggle out of it or break the knot, no matter what he does. I take the gun from the small of his back, stashing it away beneath my sweater, and then as an afterthought I lift up his pant leg. There, exactly where I expected it to be, is a fighting knife with a nine-inch blade. I attach it to my belt and head off into the line of trees where Tony and Jolie are hiding.

"Are you alright?" the little girl asks me immediately upon seeing me. She runs to me and presses her face into my stomach.

"Yes," I say, smoothing her hair down. "But I may not have been if you had not saved me. Thank you."

Tony stands up and presses Jolie between us when he wraps his arms around me, kissing me lightly. "You sure you're okay?"

I nod. "Yes. He will be subdued for a while, so he is one less thing to worry about."

"Is it Mossad?" he asks softly, like he does not really wish to know the answer.

"Yes."

"What's that?" Jolie asks, looking up at me. "Why do they want to hurt us?"

"I am afraid this is our fault, darling," I say gently, hoping beyond myself that she does not hate me for what I am about to say. "Sometimes fathers are not what they are supposed to be, and they hurt their children. We came to Paris to hide from my father, and now it looks like he has found us anyway. I am deeply sorry that your family has been caught in the middle."

Jolie pauses, taking in the information. "So the man with Papa is your father?"

"No," I reply, shaking my head. The man in the living room is significantly shorter than my father – at least I have that assurance. "My father sent friends to find me this time."

"Bad men."

"Yes," I agree. "Very bad men."

"So what are you going to do?" Tony asks, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

"I am going to get Henri and Armand," I say simply before pulling the gun from under my shirt and handing it to Tony, who takes it without hesitation. He quickly tucks it into his belt, under his jacket and away from Jolie's prying eyes. "I will find out what is going on and how much they have managed to report back to my father. Stay out here until I come and tell you that it is safe to come inside."

"Maria?" Jolie asks softly. "Are you going to hurt them?"

I grimace. How can I tell this girl that I plan to?

"Not if I can help it," I say, which is not exactly a lie. Tony meets my eyes and I see the concern there, but we do not have a choice now. He knows that what happens here tonight will decide our survival. We cannot let ourselves think too hard on what we are willing to do to make sure we see tomorrow.

I start back toward the house before any more words are exchanged. By now, the other man in the room will have realized that something is wrong. He will now have a choice: trust that his man has the situation handled and risk a possible threat, or he can check on things himself and leave his hostages alone with each other. Considering that he has already had Henri and Armand to himself for some time, the second option will most likely be the one of his choosing. He will decide that they have given him all they can, and he will kill them soon after. Unless, of course, I can reach them first. Not for the first time, my father's training seems to have been for the better.

The back door is unlocked, and I do not know if it is a trap or a mercy.

I open it as silently as possible and slip in, propping the door open with a laundry basket so that I do not risk the man hearing the sound of it closing. Examining my surroundings, I find no immediate threats. The laundry room is small and does not give me a place to sufficiently hide myself, and so I move on. A small walkway leads to the kitchen, which is just on the opposite side of the dining room and the living room. From my brief glance in the window, the Nouvel men are being held in the living room. I seem to have walked into my own corner, because I cannot get to him without him noticing me well in advance. However, it is the only chance to reach them that I have been given, so I resolve to do what I can with it.

The hallway is small and narrow, and I slip through it without a sound to give me away. I am halfway through the kitchen, listening carefully to the muffled conversation on the other side of the wall, when I hear the back door suddenly slam. Apparently, the basket was not enough to keep it open for long. In any case, it has eliminated the only element I had on my side – that of surprise. Two seconds later, the door to kitchen crashes open and the man running through it is met with my heel in his stomach. He grunts in pain and stumbles back, into the wall. When it looks up at me, my heart clenches in my chest.

He is Nathaniel Omari, my father's Chief of Security. The fact that he is here, in this kitchen, means that our lives are in more danger than we thought.

Omari takes obvious pleasure in my recognition and uses it to his advantage, using the back of his hand to slap my head back with an audible _crack_. It takes me less than a second to recover, but the damage is done. My head is buzzing and I cannot hear his footsteps behind me, but I can certainly feel his fist connect with my left kidney. I cry out in pain and grip the counter for support when I whirl around and attempt to kick him away. He catches my leg and twists it painfully, until I am forced to turn around to keep him to breaking the bone.

"Well?" I pant, "What are you waiting for? Do it."

"I am not here to kill you, Ziva," he says ambiguously. I do not believe him.

"How did you find us?"

"You would not believe me if I told you," he laughs. "Fate works in mysterious ways."

I scoff. "You have no idea."

I throw my head back, the tough bone of my skull connecting with his chin hard enough to crack his teeth together. He staggers back, eyes closed, and I pull his feet out from under him. He hits the kitchen table on the way down, sending several plates crashing to the ground to shatter around him. Several shards cut into his arms and face and he grimaces. The sound of his pained groans echo around the small kitchen, making me smile in satisfaction. He attempts to jump up, but I push him down before he has the chance. I make sure to grind his back into the glass, just to prove a point.

"I am sorry to be the one to tell you this, Nathaniel," I say sweetly, "But you will not be leaving here tonight."

"I have orders to bring you home, to your father," he replies breathlessly, "But something tells me that I am better off fulfilling the contract on your head and collecting the reward money. You will be trouble."

"Trouble will not be the half of it," I say, and pull my fist back to connect with his jaw. Faster than I can stop him, he reaches for a shard of glass and I watch it slide down the side of my arm as I land the blow. He is unconscious immediately, but the skin of my arm falls apart and blood pours faster than I would honestly like it to. I check to see if he is truly unconscious, and hit him again for good measure before reaching for a dish towel to tie around the wound. Blood soaks it through almost immediately and I wince, pulling the sweater from my shoulders and leaving me in the tank top I had decided earlier today was too cold for the current weather. It seems as though I no longer have a choice. I cut a long sliver of material from the bottom and tie it around the towel tight enough to stem the flow of blood, if only for a little while.

I take my time tying Omari to a chair in the kitchen, triple-checking all my knots and kicking all the glass away from him so that he cannot cut through his restraints. I take his gun and the knife at his ankle, keeping them for myself. They may prove to be useful by the time the night is over. Whatever the case, Nathaniel Omari is not going anywhere. He is not leaving this kitchen until I have the information I need, in its entirety.

Even then he may not be leaving it alive.


	22. Separations

**Author's Note:**

**Hello, all! I hope you've had a marvelous week. School is winding down for a lot of us, I think, so here's to the weekend!**

**There are a lot of questions going to be answered fairly soon, so I'm hoping you're all along for the ride. Things are getting a wee bit complicated - it's the nature of the beast, as I'm sure you all know - but hopefully answers make it a little clearer. Any problems, you let me know. :D**

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

"**Separations" **

I almost collapse in relief when I see Ziva open the back door and wave us inside. She looks a little worse for the wear, but I'm so happy to see her alive that I feel like crying. Jolie looks up at me, questioning, and I nod to let her know that it's okay. I grip her hand in mine and we jog up to the house, avoiding the body that Ziva left behind earlier. We're lucky – he's still out like a light. When we get closer, my stomach flips uncomfortably at the sight of the blood marring Ziva's side. Jolie gasps beside me and I know that she's noticed it too.

"What happened?" I ask desperately, feeling myself grow sick when I think about where the blood may have come from.

"He got my arm," she offers in explanation, holding up the makeshift bandage. She's already starting to bleed through it and I swallow hard, forcing the bile out of my throat. "But I am fine. It is nothing life threatening, I promise."

"Okay," I say and agree to leave the matter alone for the time being. "So what's going on in there?"

"Henri and Armand are fine, and the rest of the house is clear," she reports simply. "It looks as though there were only two of them, but we do not have much time. Once they fail to report back to my father, he will know that something has gone wrong."

I nod. "What do you want me to do?"

"I have already called Martin. He is on his way over to take care of things, but we have to take care of some things first," she says and looks down at Jolie. "We need to get you back to your family." Jolie nods enthusiastically and Ziva turns her eyes back to me. "You will need to carry her, and cover her eyes. The kitchen is something of a mess. There is glass on the floor."

Jolie reaches for me and I pick her up, holding her close enough to feel her pounding heart through her shirt. She's still shaking a little, but she's calmed down. Ziva leads the way through the back of the house, pausing once we reach the entrance to the kitchen.

"Close your eyes, babe," I tell her and wait until the girl's done what she's told. As a precaution, I cover her eyes with my hand as we march into the light.

Ziva was right. Jolie didn't need to see this.

A man that I presume is our second pursuer is tied up to a chair in the middle of the room, surrounded by broken glass. Cuts along his arms are bleeding freely, unimpeded by bandages. He has one long cut around his cheek and his head is drooping awkwardly to the side. He's still breathing though, which tells me that Ziva has him unconscious for the time being. My eyes drop to the floor, where a few splatters of blood trail around on the otherwise impeccable white tile. Some of it has pooled in the middle, smeared by shoe tracks. I speed up, wanting to get through this nightmare as quickly as possible. Honestly, I didn't need to see this either.

Ziva leads us through the kitchen doors, through the dining room, and into the living room. Henri and Armand are sitting there anxiously, but they jump up once they see me with Jolie. Henri looks like he's been through hell, but he calls for his daughter like he was afraid he'd never see her again. He probably was. She jumps out of my arms instantly, running to her father despite the blood and bruises that probably would have terrified me when I was her age. I see tears run down their faces as Armand hugs them both, letting out the deep breath that he's probably been holding for hours. I look at Ziva and she gives me the same stare I'm giving her.

Finally, once the crying and reassurances have subsided, Henri pulls away from his children and faces me with a smile that catches me completely by surprise. I was expecting anger, or hatred. Instead he looks like he might hug me too.

"Tony, Ziva," he gasps, "I have never been so happy to see you in my life."

I blink.

"What did you just call us?" I ask incredulously – it couldn't have been what I think it was. Maybe I heard him wrong.

"Those are your names, are they not?" he asks and notes our surprised faces with some amusement. "Do not seem so shocked. You honestly believed I was in the dark about your identities? I would not allow my children around strangers. Martin told me everything, weeks before you arrived."

Ziva laughs. "Unbelievable, though I do not blame you after what we have put you through tonight. Why did you not tell us?"

"I could not risk their safety," he shrugs, looking down at his children. "I did not want the information to be used against them, or to hurt them."

"You mean it's true?" Armand asks, obviously surprised by the idea. "You are really criminals?"

"No, Armand," Henri says disdainfully. "They are American agents, hiding from a corrupt government that wants to harm them."

"Agents?" he repeats, like he can't quite get his mind around the idea. I can't blame him after the night he's had. Heck, it probably would have been difficult even without the home invasion.

"We work for the Naval Criminal Investigative Service," Ziva explains. "NCIS. We needed a place to hide when false charges were placed on us, and so we came to live here with you. We never intended to risk your safety, and for that we are both deeply sorry."

"I knew it," Jolie says absently, staring at me like she's seeing me for the first time. "I just knew it."

"Knew what?" I ask.

She walks over and hugs me, wrapping her arms around my waist. "I knew you were the hero."

I smile and smooth her hair away from her face. She holds me a little tighter and I feel a knot begin to form in my throat.

"I'll always be the hero when you need me to be," I tell her honestly.

"Henri, you need to take your children and leave the city," Ziva orders solemnly. "Pack whatever you need, and leave. One of us will contact you when we feel that it is safe."

"There is no alternative?" he asks and Ziva shakes her head. "Fine. Armand, Jolie, go up and pack your things. Bring only what you need and nothing else. When you are finished, start putting your things in the car."

Jolie offers one last hug, Armand gives us an awkward nod, and then they take off up the stairs. Ziva takes a long breath and lets it out, letting her eyes close. I can sympathize, but the increasingly apparent loss of color in her face worries me.

"Hey, come here," I say, waving her over. "I want to look at your arm."

"Do not worry about me," she nods and nods at Henri. "He looks far worse than I."

"Nothing an ice pack will not cure," he insists. "From the looks of my dish towel, however, I think you currently demand our attention."

Ziva allows us to lead her to the couch, and I watch in agony as Henri peels the layers of cloth from her skin. Almost instantly, I wish I hadn't watched. The gash is at least six inches long, and runs almost all the way to her elbow. It's still bleeding despite the smears of blood that have already crusted and congealed around it. Her arm is covered with it and I get a little lightheaded when I look at it too long. Even she flinches away, and I know for a fact that Ziva's seen her fair share of gore. Henri, on the other hand, remains completely calm.

"Tony, can you do me a favor?" he asks, like he's about to request the salt.

"What do you need?"

"In the kitchen, under the sink, is a first aid kit," he instructs, "Please bring it to me."

"Can do."

I step through the dining room and into the kitchen, back into the unholy mess that I was hoping not to look at again for a while. Now, however, what's-his-name is starting to stir. He's groaning and starting to struggle, but he's not going to be my problem for a little while longer. Right now, I have to worry about Ziva. When I'm convinced that she's not going to bleed to death, I'll come back in here find out what this guy's story is. I sidestep around him and reach the sink, finding the large red tackle box near the back. When I turn back around, Ziva's captive is staring right at me.

"She will kill you, you know," he says ominously, keeping his voice low. "She will, as soon as you cease to be useful."

"Sorry, buddy," I say, giving him an icy smile. "I already drank the Kool-Aid."

He gives me a funny look and I walk out, ignoring the call of "Fool!" from behind my back. Back in the living room, Ziva hisses as Henri presses a wet cloth to the wound. Once it's been cleaned, it doesn't look so bad. It's not nearly as deep as I thought it was when I saw all the blood. He reaches for the box and I hand it over and take a seat on the coffee table across from Ziva. I put my hand on her knee and she sends me a look of gratitude, shifting into my touch.

"It is not so bad," Henri comments, "But I would prefer to stitch it up."

Ziva shakes her head. "We do not have that kind of time, and we cannot risk the exposure of the hospital."

"I thought you would say that," he grumbles and takes a few things out of the box. "We will seal it up with some butterfly bandages – a lot of them, actually. You will have to be diligent in redressing it, Ziva, or it will be infected. Badly, I might add."

"Noted," she says and watches as he pulls the skin together and pulls the bandages on. He applies some antiseptic, and Ziva curses in at least five languages. Armand is walking out to the car with a suitcase at the time, and he laughs under his breath before running out the door. When Henri is satisfied that it is disinfected to the best of his ability, he starts with the dressing. He covers the bandages with a layer of gauze that he tapes on like it's going out of style. Next is a layer of gauze that he wraps around her entire forearm, tight enough to keep the bleeding from starting over again. Two layers of tape later – to keep it waterproof, he insists – he pronounces Ziva ready to roll.

"Thank you, Henri," she says gratefully.

"How did you get to be so handy with the first aid stuff?" I ask, watching Ziva as she tests out the movement of her arm.

"I spent some of my youth in the army," he explains with a smile. "It gave me some necessary life skills."

"That would do it."

Thirty minutes later, our world is chaos. Martin has arrived with a suspicious-looking black duffel bag, our hostage is making more noise than we're comfortable with, and the kids are arguing over who gets the front seat. Henri has cleaned up his face and he's loading his own things in the car, mumbling something about a cousin in the country who won't mind a visit from the kids. It takes a few minutes, but things start to calm down when we suddenly find ourselves at the door – waiting to say goodbye. None of us know how to start, apparently. We all stare like morons, clearing out throats and nudging the carpet with the toes of our shoes. Ziva speaks first, reaching out to Henri.

"I am sorry to have caused you all this pain," she says softly, "But I cannot be sorry to have been a part of your lives for the little time that we have had together."

"We've been lucky to have you, Ziva," he says, pulling her into a large hug that she returns eagerly. He pulls back and offers me his hand. "Both of you."

I shake it and smile. "You probably saved our lives, Henri. We can't thank you enough."

Armand steps forward and shakes my hand. "_Merci_. For everything." He turns right around and gives Ziva a hug and a shy kiss on her cheek. "You have taught me a lot, Mar – oh, sorry – Ziva."

She smiles. "And you have taught me as well. Please keep learning. I hope you accomplish everything you dream of."

"I like the name Ziva better," Jolie says suddenly, making Ziva laugh. She steps forward, front and center, with all eyes on her. "It fits you better than Maria. It's more daring, I think."

"Thank you," she says. "I will miss you, Jolie. I hope you will not give your father and brother too much trouble when we are gone."

"Sorry, but that will not happen any time soon," she grins and everyone laughs. Ziva kneels down and Jolie wraps her arms around Ziva's neck. "I am very, very happy to have known you Ziva. Even if it was scary tonight."

"I am happy too, Jolie."

Then, the moment comes. Jolie turns away from Ziva and faces me with those big, heartbreaker blue eyes of hers. She knows what we have to do, and I can see the realization dawn on her as the seconds tick by. Her bottom lip starts to come out and her face turns beet red – a sure signal that she's going to cry. I reach for her hand and the tears start as she links our fingers. Thinking for one horrific second that this may be the last time I see her, I reach out and pick her up. She wraps her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck, clinging for dear life. I hear her sobs in my ear and my own eyes start to burn.

"I'm going to miss you so, so much pretty girl," I say affectionately, rubbing her back as she cries.

"You're going to forget me," she wails and I shake my head.

"No, I won't. I couldn't do that if I tried," I promise her. Still, she holds on tight and all I can do to make it better is hold her right back. For now, that's going to have to be enough. A minute or two passes and it pains me when I have to say, "It's time for you to go with your dad now, babe."

She nods sadly and pulls back, sniffling. "I don't want you to go."

"I know," I say, my chest tight. "But we have to go. We have to keep you safe."

"My hero," she muses seriously and I laugh.

"Don't you forget it, either," I say, kissing her nose. "Whenever you're scared, just think of me and I'll be right there with you. Promise me you will."

"I promise," she says solemnly and I set her down for her to walk back to her father, who gives me the most compassionate look I've ever seen. He knows what goodbye is like, maybe more than any of us.

Slowly, they all file out to the car. Armand wins shotgun, because Jolie can more easily stretch out to sleep in the backseat. The three of us watch, side by side, as Henri starts the small car and backs it out of the driveway. Jolie waves at me from the back window as they drive away and I wave back, praying like hell that this won't be the last time I see her. I stay put when they stop at the end of the block and turn the corner, heading toward the highway. Ziva grips my arm when their taillights fade from view, and then they're gone.


	23. Ultimatums

**Author's Note:**

**Dear, dear readers. I have but two words by way of an apology for such a long wait:**

**GRAD SCHOOL.**

**I'm sure some of you already understand. In any case, I am sorry to have kept this story in such horrible limbo. I hope this newest chapter will get you all back into the swing of things.**

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

"**Ultimatums"**

I swallow my tears and fight back the growing sense of dread in my stomach. Tony stares after the car for a few more seconds before turning to me, his eyes darkened in anger. The look surprises me, because Tony is so rarely angry.

"Let's get this over with," he says ominously, turning and heading back into the house. I know he is thinking of the men waiting for us, and how close they were to harming the people we have grown to love so much. I am thinking the same thing. We have to clean up our mess if they will ever be safe again.

Martin leads us back into the house, where Nathaniel Omari is cursing loudly. He has already carried our second man into the dining room, where he remains gagged and tied. The man I fought outside had no identification – a bad sign that both Martin and I know all too well. This second man was the sacrificial lamb, so to speak. He was sent as expendable muscle, meaning very much that my father meant business by sending these two here. In the event that I found this man and killed him, he remained anonymous so that he could not be linked back to Mossad. To my father's benefit, however, if the man disappears he will know that the man was close enough to find me. Then my father will have a place to focus his efforts.

This man is essentially a flare gun, and his flare just went off.

We cannot send them back to Israel, because they possess information that my father cannot have. Even if we kill him and Omari, my father will know where we are. He will send every man available to scour Paris and the surrounding areas, eventually ending up exactly where these two did – the Nouvel family. I am starting to believe that there will be only one way to end this, and it is an option that I accept as an unfortunate inevitability.

"What's with the bag?" Tony asks Martin, bringing me out of my head. The two of them are in the living room, staring at Martin's luggage.

"This is my interrogation supply bag," Martin replies smugly, unzipping the bag in a few places and letting it fall open into a long tool belt of what looks like surgical equipment. On closer inspection, I realize its function is possibly the farthest possible thing from saving lives. Unless my eyes deceive me, he brought his torture bag. It is complete with knives and scalpels of all sizes along with a small branding iron, a couple of hooks, and a few other devices that I do not immediately recognize. I have no doubt they are capable of inflicting unspeakable pain, which makes them exponentially more useful here.

"Jeez, Martin," Tony marvels. "Are you serious?"

"As a coronary," he replies absently. He looks up and finds Tony's expression to be less than impressed. "Hey, you wanted information didn't you?"

"Well, yeah," he says, "But this is a bit much, isn't it?"

"Okay, son, I realize you're new to the game," he says condescendingly, causing Tony to frown distastefully. "You're used to the world of arrest warrants and defense attorneys, but if you'll look around, you may find that we have neither of those here. In this world, the only way to get what you want is to take it – quickly and painfully. Ask Ziva, she knows."

He looks at me and I look down at the floor – my past is not something I am proud of anymore. I suddenly wish that I did not have a body count weighing down on my back.

"Look, if it's really going to bend you out of shape, wait in the other room," he instructs, obviously annoyed. Perhaps with both of us, since I did not back him up. "Ziva, you're with me. I need someone to help me with the language barrier."

"Go ahead," I tell him, looking at Tony. "I will join you in a minute."

He walks through the kitchen door, mumbling incoherently under his breath, and I am left alone with Tony. Martin's instruments are between us, and my mind does not fail to grasp the double meaning. Tony watches me carefully, though I do not know why or what he is looking for. Maybe if I did, this would be easier.

"I know you are not happy with this, and that it makes you uncomfortable," I say and sigh loudly. "Honestly, I do not blame you. I have not been this person in a long time now."

"You're not a killer anymore, Zee," he says softly.

"No, I am not," I agree. "And I do not want to start again, because I know how you will think of me when this is over. I just do not see another option."

"Nothing's going to change the way I feel about you," he says seriously and I cannot help but doubt him. "I don't like this, it's not how I work, but I know this is something you have to do."

I clear my throat. "I… I do not want you to watch."

"I'll be in here with no-name," he says, nodding his head back at our other captive. "I'll stay out of your way, I promise."

"Please do not think less of me," I say, looking directly at him instead of down at the floor. "I promise that I will not enjoy what I have to do – I am doing this for their safety, and for ours." I clear my throat again. "I would do anything to keep you safe, Tony. Just know that."

"I know," he assures me. "Go. Just get it over with."

I turn away, hoping that he will look at me the same way when I leave the kitchen.

Inside, Martin is sharpening is instruments well within sight of Omari. The man looks unfazed, but I can see the slight hiccup in his breathing. As tough as my father has trained him to become, no one is immune to torture. He knows what is coming just as surely as Martin and I do, and he is probably just as enthusiastic. Martin says nothing as I enter the room – he just keeps sharpening. There are a few things that I need to gain from this conversation, and once I have those things it will be over.

"So," I begin casually, leaning against the refrigerator and crossing my arms over my chest. "How did you find us?"

He laughs.

"Was it our botched escape in Istanbul?" I ask and he shakes his head. "The letters coming and going from my team in America, then."

"If we had known you had the audacity to contact them, we would have found you much faster," he admits. "We assumed you would be smarter than that. But your team was quite busy while you were away."

"What do you mean?"

"We received false intelligence on your whereabouts every other week or so, sent via anonymous e-mails that we could not trace with our best technicians," he says bitterly. "They toyed with us, pointing us to South America, Canada, and Russia. I spent a week in New Delhi, cursing your name. Wild goose chases, all. We have no way to prove it was them, of course, but we know what they are willing to do to keep you safe."

"But you never came to Paris?" I laugh.

"Not until earlier this week," he says. "Would you like to know how we knew to come here?"

"Please."

"A low-level analyst saw you here, when he was on vacation with his wife," he says with a bright smile. "He took a photo with his phone and sent it back to headquarters, scrambling almost every specialist in Mossad to decipher if it was actually you or a very striking look-alike." He grins. "Obviously, my presence here tells you that we concluded it was actually you in the picture."

My eyes widen. "That is all?"

"Like I said before," he smiles, "Fate works in mysterious ways. You may take the phone from my pocket and take a look, if you like."

I look at Martin and he nods but turns to face Omari. "Touch her, even think about it, and I'll pop off your fingers one by one. Got it?"

"Understood."

I make quick work of finding his phone an sorting through the pictures, the majority of which are the wife and son he has at home. It pains me to view them but I have no alternative if I want to live much longer. Finally, I come across my photo in the middle of them. It has been enhanced to make it clearer, and I know exactly when it was taken. I am sitting on a bench on a busy street, reading a book. It was one of the mornings I woke early and took a walk, thinking about mine and Tony's life as possible parents. That question, while it was so potent for two weeks, now seems like the farthest thing from my mind. For the first time in weeks, I am truly glad I was not pregnant. I could not be doing all this worrying about our unborn child.

"Well," I say, tucking the phone into my pocket for safe keeping, "That answers that question. It appears we only have two left."

"And what would those be?"

"How many more men you have in Paris, for one," I say and he shrugs noncommittally. "But I suppose that is answer enough in itself, because if you had any kind of backup we would have heard from them by now. We have been vulnerable to attack several times throughout the night, and I have not heard a peep. Any Mossad agent would have taken his chances by now."

He says nothing and scowls. I have my answer.

"That is settled, then," I say. "My father sent you on a suicide mission with no backup."

"What is your last question, then, if you have our circumstances so well considered," Omari asks sarcastically, his eyes boring into mine.

"Why my father wants to kill me."

He scoffs. "You know why."

"Because of Tony?" I ask incredulously. "What kind of fool do you take me for? I am sure my father was angry when I defied him, but not enough to exile me and have me killed. There is something else going on and I want you to tell me what it is."

"What makes you think that I know what it is?" he asks and his eyes widen fractionally when Martin takes a step in his direction. Mossad has been trained not to reveal fear, but Omari is only human. Not everyone would have been able to see it, but I see his pupils dilate and I know that we have him where we want him.

"That is your answer?"

"Yes."

"Martin," I say, not taking my eyes from Omari. "Please convince him to change his mind."

Martin circles him, wielding a long blade that I am sure is as lethal as it looks. Omari catches my eye and holds it, refusing to give in to his anxious desire to follow Martin with his eyes. Everyone in the room has been through this song and dance – we have all faced torture, and we have all survived it. Even when Martin makes a long incision along the back of our captive's neck, he flinches but does not cry out. His breathing speeds up and becomes more labored, sweat pours anew, but he does not make a sound. This is how we were all taught to deal with the experience of pain – silently, without divulging a thing.

"You and I both know that you will not be getting out of here alive," I say casually, as though pointing out the shape of the clouds or the direction of the wind. "I do not see how it serves you to keep things from me. In fact, I will make you a deal. If you tell me what I want to know, this will be quick and painless. You have my word."

Omari spits at my feet. "Your word is worth less than nothing to me, traitor."

"Is that what my father has told you?" I laugh, almost seething. "That I have committed treason? He will lie about anything to serve his purposes. You should know this by now." I get close to him, putting my mouth just beside his ear. "He is a spoiled child, murderous because he did not get his way. Tony is still alive, so I must die."

"He does not want to kill you," Omari says. "The American was only collateral damage – a test of your loyalty. In fact, I have orders to leave him alive if you come with me willingly."

I stand up quickly, feeling like I have been electrocuted. "You do not mean that."

"Of course I do," he says, scoffing. "I do not say things I do not mean."

"If I go with you back to my father, back to Israel, Tony can return to his life in Washington?"

"With all the pomp and circumstance of a hero, if you wish it," he says sarcastically, obviously recognizing my weak spot. Tony always has been.

"Ziva," Martin interrupts, sensing my thoughts. "Don't even think about it."

"Stay out of this, Martin," I reply weakly, my eyes focused on Omari – the man who is offering me Tony's life. He will be free of this, and I have the power to do that for him. "I have your word that he will arrive in America safely? And that he will not be killed?"

"I cannot account for bus accidents you know," Omari answers smugly, "But aside from the occasional freak accident I can assure you that DiNozzo will remain untouched. At least by Mossad."

"Ziva…" Martin's voice cuts painfully into my thoughts.

"You are no longer welcome in this conversation," I tell Martin without looking at him. "Please excuse us a moment."

"No, I don't think I will," he fires back, obviously displeased with me. "What you're considering is ludicrous. You cannot take this man at his word!"

This time, I turn to look at him. "Please give me a moment. And do not tell Tony what you have just heard."

"You've got two minutes for me to make a quick phone call," he says reluctantly, and sheaths the blade left in his hand. "If Tony knows you're even considering this, he'll kill me. I hope you know what."

"I am fully aware of the repercussions."

"Good," he says forcefully. "I really hope you are."

I wait until Martin steps into the hall before I turn back to Omari, ignoring the slightly amused grin on his face. Giving into a small impulse, I smash my fist into his jaw. My knuckles crack painfully, but it has the intended effect. Omari is in pain, however he chooses to mask it. This time, he laughs loudly and spits blood onto the floor. If he thinks I am playing with him, or that I am willing to be played, he has made a very lethal mistake.

"Tell me," I say, grabbing one of Martin's knives from his bag.

"Come with me and he walks out of here unscathed," he says simply and my heart soars – I am afraid to hope that Tony will be able to escape. "Your father wants you home alive, Ziva. Killing you has never been his intention."

"Why do I find that so hard to believe?" I scoff, thinking of all the near-misses along this violent road. I think of Liraz – one of their own, murdered in cold blood for positioning herself too close to us.

"You never gave him a chance to explain, Ziva!" he cries adamantly. I am still loathe to trust him.

"He did not need a chance," I seethe. "I am his daughter. He should have awarded me the opportunity he so desperately demands for himself."

"Eli understands that now," he insists. "It is why I am here with no one but my own personal security – I did not come here to kill you, or to drag you back to Tel Aviv in shackles. I am here to offer you the chance you seem to want so much."

I study him carefully, and I cannot tell if he is telling the truth or simply deluded into believing my father's agenda. Either way, this is an opportunity I cannot afford to pass up. Even if it is a trick – even if I am murdered – it will give Tony the chance he needs to escape. Martin and the team will help him get home, and my father will leave him alone with me no longer in the picture. My mind is made up.

"I am going to instruct Tony and Martin to leave in the next few moments," I tell him, whispering so that Martin does not hear me. "They will leave your man alive, but they will hold him as collateral. When they leave this house, I will release you and return with you to Israel."

He smiles. "You've made the wisest choice, Ziva."

"I doubt it, but it is my only one."

I turn, intending to reach for the kitchen door and talk to Tony, but the sound of cloth snapping makes me pause. When I look back, I expect to see Omari settling into his chair or attempting to remove his restraints. Instead I see him baring his teeth, leaping out of his chair. In his hand is a small, two-inch blade – small enough to be hidden in the lining of his shirt or belt, but more than enough to do damage. I move to disarm him, but I do not register his attack quickly enough. I dodge and by some stroke of luck the blow goes wide, and buries his knife in the wall.

Before I have time to think of my counter-attack, a blur of blond hair rushes in and shoves Omari into the wall. Martin has him pinned faster than Omari can react, and then it no longer matters. A stainless steel blade has been buried to the hilt in between his vertebrae, puncturing both the lungs and the heart. Omari was dead almost instantly, and certainly before he hit the wall in front of him. He slides to the floor, the ugly smell of death quickly permeating the air. Tony rushes in at the noise, and looks down to see Omari's blood pooling thickly on the pristine white tile. He grimaces, and looks up at Martin.

"Thanks," he says and the response confuses me until I realize just how close Omari came to fulfilling the contract on my head. The side of my shirt is torn, and a small scrape of skin is missing – not even enough to bleed. It was too close for anyone's comfort.

"Get out, both of you," Martin says shortly, pushing up his sleeves.

"We are not leaving," I argue but one glance from Martin's furious blue eyes silences me.

"Get out. Now," he says, throwing the murder weapon in the sink. "I'll take care of this. You need to get as far away from here as possible as quickly as possible."

"What about you?" Tony asks hurriedly, already preparing to leave.

"Find the seediest motel in the red light district and register yourselves as Mark and Melissa something or other. I'll find you." He runs his hand through his hair. "Go home, and clean out any proof of your existence. Get rid of everything personal. No one should find a goddamn thing in there about who you really are."

"I know the routine," I say shortly. "Time frame?"

"Be out of there in an hour," he orders. "At the very most."

"Plenty of time," I say and spare one last look at Omari. "Well. I will leave you to it."

"Ziva?" he asks as Tony and I are turning to leave.

"Yes?"

"Don't so much as think about what I know you're thinking about," he warns and I do not look at Tony – he will see it in my eyes. "Understand?"

"Perfectly," I reply, nodding in deference.

* * *

Five minutes later, Tony and I are headed back to our apartment to destroy every trace of our lives in Paris.


	24. Disappearances

**Author's Note:**

**Oh sweet, sweet readers! Grad school has kept me from you and I'm so, so sorry for that. I'm sure you're all ready to give me the silent treatment by now, but I dearly hope you can accept this chapter as proof that I have not died or given this story up for lost. Quite the opposite, in fact. I have fragments of the next two chapters already written, they just need a bit more fluffing and editing. [Thanks, as always, to Mina Blythe for taking my fictional ramblings and turning them into chapters.]**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy this. Reviews, as always, are desperately hoped for. :)**

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

"**Disappearances"**

We're moving too quickly to let ourselves think, and in a way it's a good thing. If we had a chance to catch our breath and really think about our situation we'd probably be feeling a little scared, and more than a little guilty. For now I'm more than willing to handle the rush – it beats the alternative.

The apartment feels different now – hollow and sad, like it knows that we won't be coming back. Even with our hosts' safety in mind, it's hard to shake off the despair. Ziva works silently, throwing things into bags. She takes no time to slow down or examine whatever it is she's getting rid of, which is the better way of doing it. I'm stopping every few minutes to stare at the pieces of our life, now in chains and waiting anxiously for execution. Pictures of us covered in paint, and the antique flatware I bought her because I thought she needed something beautiful in a bleak circumstance. It's too easy to get lost in the memories when you know you'll never come back.

"Keep going," Ziva orders softly and I know her well enough to know that she's having just as much difficulty as I am. "It will be easier that way."

"Yeah," I reply half-heartedly, picking up a pile of letters from a long-forgotten drawer. They're addressed to us from the team, and nothing would make me happier than to keep them but I know I can't. Instead I take a pair of scissors and start cutting them into thin slivers, one by one. By the time I've finished Ziva has cleared the rest of the living room and the entire kitchen. There's nothing worth destroying in the bathroom, unless Mossad is interested in my aftershave. That only leaves one room.

We head down the hall together, large garbage bags in hand. It's occurred to us already just how hard this is going to be. All joking aside, the bedroom has seen the most of our lives here – our ups and our downs, our fights and our resolutions. We spent our first night of freedom in this room, together in the early hours of the morning, and we didn't realize at the time but we spent our last night here already. I'm suddenly glad I spent it with her tucked so close to me.

Neither of us knows where to start. There are pictures of us on the walls, our clothes are in the closet. Ziva's books on her nightstand and my magazines on mine (in French now, thank you very much). Ziva's shampoo lingers on her pillow, and her jewelry on the dresser. How are we supposed to sift through this and decide what needs to be destroyed?

"How much can we take?" I ask, thinking of the books she loves so much. My suits.

"Bring clothes," she replies. "Leave everything else. Personal effects, such as pictures or letters, will have to be disposed of. Normally procedure would be a fire or bomb to sweep away our tracks but… I could not."

"Yeah, let's just go with plan A."

I round up pictures while she goes through the night stands, looking for IDs or anything else we may have left in an odd place. Each photo gets ripped before it goes into the bag, and I've built a steady rhythm before one picture screws me up. It was taken about a month ago, when Ziva and I had gone with the kids on a walk in one of the massive parks in the city – I forget now which one. I had let Armand take over camera duties, and he managed to snap one of me and Ziva leaning against a tree with the morning sun behind us. Her face is buried in my chest and my arms are circling her shoulders, my face resting on in the top of her head. Armand showed it to us later and Ziva gasped in shock, instantly in love. I had it printed and framed for her the next day.

No, this one wasn't getting ripped up.

I take the photo from its frame and tuck it carefully in my front pocket, hoping it doesn't bend too much before I can find a safer place for it. I sneak a look to my side and find Ziva watching me, a sad smile playing at her lips. For a minute I'm afraid she's going to make me give it up but then she smiles and I know I'm in the clear.

"Of all the pictures in this room," she tells me, "I am so happy you chose that one to save."

"It's my favorite," I confess.

She nods. "Mine as well."

It doesn't take as long as I was expecting to eliminate all proof of our lives here. Personal documents, pictures, and letters have been shredded and disposed of. The few items of clothing we've allowed ourselves are packed and waiting for us in the living room. The last item on our agenda is staring at us now, although it's not too much of a dilemma. For me, at least.

"Well?" Ziva asks me. "What do you think?"

I look at the duffel bag, still a little less than half full of the cash Liraz sent us before she was killed. Obviously the solution doesn't need debate.

"Take some to get us where we're going, leave the rest," I say simply and she nods.

"Deal."

She unzips the bag, takes a few thousand to shove in her bag, and then zips it back up. At the last minute she turns and grabs a small piece of blank stationary paper from her nightstand. I watch as she scribbles something down, her brow furrowed in urgency. Just before she folds it up and sticks it in the bag, she shows it to me. Her handwriting is small and cramped, but I can tell the message is written in French. It takes my frantic brain a few seconds to arrive at the translation but I get there. When I do, I smile and nod to let her know that the message has my approval.

"We were the happiest we've ever been."

It's nearing ten o'clock when Mark and Melissa Gerard check into a motel with the lingering smell of sweat and cigarette smoke. Our room is cramped and dirty, and the walls are paper-thin. We can hear everything our neighbors are doing, but we have an advantage because that means they won't be able to hear us. Ziva sets her bag down near the door and I follow suit, unsure of what to do other than wait for Martin to show up. Ziva starts a thorough inspection of our room while I pull up a seat by the window, hoping to catch my breath for a minute or two. She's already gone into fugitive mode, flipping blankets and checking the closets for monsters with Mossad badges. I, on the other hand, only thought that it wouldn't be possible for Mossad to have found us again so soon.

I watch as she scans everything with those discerning eyes of hers, and as she moves my attention gets called back to the already worn bandage on her arm. She's obviously favoring the arm, and it forces the image of her blood on the kitchen tile back into my head. Occasionally I see her wince and focus on taking deep breaths. She's in pain and she's barely bothering to hide it. It's not a stretch to think someone near here would have prescription painkillers for sale.

"Hey," I call to her while she inspects the bathroom, "How are you doing in there?"

"I will be better once I have a weapon," she huffs. "This will serve well enough for a little while, but we need to leave Paris as soon as possible. My father probably already has people on a plane, presuming he doesn't already have people in Paris."

"I meant your arm," I reply. "But paranoia is good too. I always need more of that."

"You do now," she says bitterly. "From now on, everyone and everything is out to get us. We will live longer that way."

Fantastic. "I really had hoped we were done with this part."

She nods. "As did I."

"Your arm?"

"It has felt better," she admits reluctantly. "But I am more concerned about infection, honestly."

"I can run out really quick and find something if you want," I offer. "If I ask nicely enough I bet I could even find some painkillers to take the edge off."

She shakes her head. "Even if it was a good idea for you to leave, I would not take the painkillers. I need to keep my head, and I will not be able to do that while I am medicated."

"If you're sure," I say and she nods. Arguing would be useless at this point and we're both too tired to bother.

Martin shows up pretty soon after that, out of breath and cussing better than most sailors. He tosses something in my direction and I'm relieved to see that it's a first aid kit. It's full of gauze, tape, and antibacterial salve – hopefully this will stave off any infection in Ziva's arm. Ziva, however, gets a bag full of ammo, complete with four different guns. Two of them are Sigs, like the ones we used back when we were NCIS agents. The other two are smaller, with their own ankle holsters. Ziva wanted weapons and she got them.

"Don't even bother asking how bloody difficult it was to get these to you," the man grumbles. "I'm almost out of bribe money."

"Our thanks, Martin," Ziva said and after removing the guns, pushes the bag aside. "What is the plan now? We are almost completely under your advisement."

"Now?" he sighs tiredly, pulling up a chair across from mine. "Now we wait."

The phone rings and we all twitch a little in surprise. It looks like Ziva's order for paranoia has set in just fine.

"Almost like we cued it," I quip. "Wouldn't you say?"

* * *

Sometimes I could swear I'm psychic.

Not Gibbs' gut kind of psychic – I don't have enough investigator mojo for that just yet – but psychic nonetheless. Take today, for example. By all means this should have been a completely average day. But average or not, I knew something was up. My skin was crawling the whole time.

I woke up, and went about my daily beautifying routine. I hit a bit of a snag while debating ponytail vs. braided pigtails, but in the end the pigtails won and I was back on track. A little bit of lipstick – Venomous Violet, to be exact – and one Caff-Pow later and I was good to go. I arrived at work exactly four minutes before seven. Major Mass Spec greeted me with a gentle whirring of his inner gears, my stereo with Brain Matter's second album, and my morning was set to begin.

The only cases on my plate were either newly solved or open-shut affairs. Ballistics for a Naval drug deal gone wrong, some organic fiber from a strangling that the wife already confessed to, and a mysterious blood sample left on Marine base housing carpet. It's probably nothing, so it's not a priority. It was in a small enough quantity to have been from a small injury or kitchen mishap involving raw meat. A few hours later, a test confirmed that the previous inhabitants liked their steak extra rare.

I had lunch with McGee, Jimmy and Ducky, like I do almost every day. Today we ordered in and ate down in autopsy, one of my secret favorite things to do. Gibbs even joined, which is rare enough to reinforce my feeling that something was up today. Just as I was getting ready to bite into my vegan spinach wrap, something made my ears buzz.

"Hey, you guys?" I ask, totally interrupting Jimmy's joke. We've already heard it, anyway.

"What is it, dear girl?" Ducky asks, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with his handkerchief.

"Do you feel different today? Like, at all?" The question is slightly out of context, but that's okay. They all sit and pause for a little while, presumably focusing more on the physical rather than the metaphysical implications of my question.

"No, I don't think so," McGee finally answers, and everyone else in the group shakes their heads along with him. Gibbs doesn't, though. And he knows that I know. So everyone goes back to their food, and I catch Gibbs looking at me over his coffee. Maybe everyone else is oblivious to the supernatural charge in the air, but me and Gibbs – we're special.

After lunch we all we go back to work, which for me is just more boredom. I had other agents with other cases calling every so often, but it's been slow for a while now. We've been in one of those rare pockets of no wrongdoing that hits DC every so often. It's actually probably more like the people doing the wrong aren't getting caught quite yet, but the lab is still slow. I'm never misguided enough to get used to it. And since everyone's pretty much playing catch-up in the building, it doesn't take Gibbs long to wander down to my lab. As always, I feel him sooner than I hear him coming up behind me. Just like Gibbs knows when I have something, I know when I have Gibbs.

"What do you got, Abs?" he asks, handing over a vat of sweet, sweet caffeine. For a moment I panic because he doesn't have a case and that also kind of means that I don't have anything for him, but he smirks before I can have a panic attack.

"Just a joke," he assures me and I take a long gulp from the straw. "So… what's different about today?"

"I know you know something, Gibbs," I tell him and he doesn't bat an eyelash. Talk about a poker face. "I don't know what it is, or even what it's about, but I know you know. I woke up this morning feeling different, Gibbs. You know? Just different. Like something was up. Is something up?"

Gibbs says nothing, but his eyebrow goes up by just a centimeter or so. Something is definitely up.

"Please, please tell me," I beg and I see the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Well, if you can't tell me just tell me what it's about."

"I got a phone call this morning," he starts and I practically vibrate in relief. I'm not crazy! "I don't know what's going to come of it just yet, but I'll let you know when I do."

"That's it?" I cry unhappily. "That's not even an answer!"

"And they said I wouldn't make a good director…" he mutters and kisses my cheek. "I'll fill you in when I have something solid, Abs. Trust me."

"You know I do, Gibbs," I say as he heads out of the lab.

I sigh and go back to my ballistics.

Gibbs doesn't reappear that day, and I'm not too tough to admit that I'm a little disappointed. The last few hours before quitting time goes pretty fast, which is fine by me. I've got a plans with the Sisters to go bowling tonight. When six o'clock rolls around, I gather my things and take the elevator up. McGee is pulling his backpack off the floor with a tired groan and Gibbs is on the phone, listening intently. Two probies sit where Tony and Ziva used to. They've been there for months, but I can't get used to it. I don't even remember their names off the top of my head. I wasn't very nice to them when they first arrived, even though McGee says I've warmed up a little. I do feel bad for them – none of this is their fault. I just miss the people who should be in those chairs.

"Headed home, McGee?" I ask and he smiles.

"Finally, yes," he sighs and offers me his arm. "Can I walk you out?"

I hook my elbow around his and grin. "I would be delighted, sir."

"See you in the morning, boss," McGee says and Gibbs nods in acknowledgement. I blow him a kiss and we set off for the elevator. Tim talks about doing some writing and I talk about bowling, inviting him along if he needs a break from the world of Deep Six. He says it's definitely a possibility and I smile, thinking of his clumsy attempts to bowl that I've already seen. It looks like just another night in our universe when the elevator dings to let us inside. But luckily my psychic mojo from the day doesn't let me down.

"Hey, you two!" Gibbs yells from his desk. "Who said you could leave?"

"Okay then," McGee says and we trudge back to Gibbs, who hangs up the phone with a loud clatter. "Is there something we missed, boss?"

"MTAC. Now."

This! This is why I felt funny all day! I'm practically buzzing in anticipation and Tim looks over at me like he's missed something pretty darn big. Which he has, but there's no point in rubbing that in now. Gibbs leads the way, out of the squad room and up the stairs. I watch with fascination as he leans down for the retinal scan and lets us into the massive theater. No one is inside but us – not even a technician. But one look at Gibbs tells me that McGee is the technician. He knows it, too. He immediately sets his bag down and gets to work on the controls. Gibbs helps him by giving him a piece of paper with specifications on it.

Within a few minutes the screen erupts into snow, sometimes interrupted with shapes that looks suspiciously like a person. Another couple of key clicks from McGee and the screen clears, leaving an empty chair for us to stare at. I look at Gibbs for explanation but he doesn't look over, which is pretty much a billboard announcing that I should hold my horses. McGee shuffles over and whispers something in my ear.

"The coordinates are for Tel Aviv."

My heart speeds up.

Before I can question Gibbs, the chair is filled by someone in dark clothing. This is all very cloak and dagger, I think absently. But before a simulated voice can tell us that this message will self-destruct in five seconds, a woman's angular face comes into view. She doesn't smile or give any other indicators of emotion. She scans our faces and ends up staring intently at Gibbs. She speaks before I have the chance to question her.

"Gibbs," she greets, "I believe you have agents to bring home."

"Tony and Ziva," I whisper, daring to hope for something I never thought could be possible again. Could they really be coming home after all this time?

"You got a plan or are you just checking in?" Gibbs asks, deadpan.

"My suspicions have been confirmed – Officer David and Agent DiNozzo have been found." My breath catches. "I have decided that there's little use in moving them to yet another hiding place."

"Are they safe now?" McGee asks and the woman nods.

"For now, yes," she replies. "They are with a friend – a trusted one. It is his job to keep them safe, but he cannot stay with them forever. One day soon he will need to return to his life, and your friends will need their own protection."

"Who are you?" I asking indelicately. I want to know who exactly I'm trusting my family's lives to.

"My name is Liraz Reut," she says plainly. "I am Mossad, and a long-time friend of Ziva's."

"She's the reason they've gotten as far as they have, Abs," Gibbs says, looking at me pointedly. McGee meets my eyes – we recognize the name immediately. I should be thanking this woman right now – we've been told just how much she risked to keep Tony and Ziva alive. Gibbs turns back to the screen. "What are we looking at?"

"I talked with them earlier this evening. David and DiNozzo were given three opportunities to end this," she says ominously. "Option one is the safest: They sneak out of France and into England. They board a ship there and are brought home that way, hopefully entering Witness Protection with the blessing of the American government."

"That can't happen," I say earnestly. "Witness Protection is for exactly that – witnesses in either a state or federal criminal trial. They won't protect people listed as fugitives in a country we have an alliance with."

Liraz nods. "I feared that. Option two is slightly more dangerous – they split up. One comes to America, most likely DiNozzo, and they continue hiding separately. They will no longer have each other for protection, but the chances of them being caught separately are far lower."

"They won't want to split up," McGee predicts and I nod my head in agreement. "What's the third option?"

"They both return to Israel, and take care of the root of the problem," she says stoically. "And as we all know, the root of this problem is Eli David. No matter what we do at Mossad, behind closed doors, or at NCIS out in the open – they will never be safe so long as he is the Deputy Director."

"Take care of the problem?" I ask. "Taking down a leader in the intelligence world? That basically means going back to Tel Aviv and dying. That entire country has memorized their faces as terrorists and murderers – they step one foot inside the border and they'll die. That's all there is to it, no questions asked."

"I never said it was the easiest choice to make," she says and I scoff in disbelief. How is getting them killed helping? "And I could not have made that choice for them."

My stomach drops. "Well, what did they choose to do?"

_Please say door number one, please say door number one, please say…_


	25. Resolutions

**Author's Note:**

**Dear readers... here's the next installment. I was waiting on my muse to finish her thoughts on it, but I got impatient so here it is. All errors are mine.**

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

"**Resolutions"**

Martin stares at the phone as if it has sprouted legs and walked away. It rings again and he looks over at me. "That's not my people. I have a burn phone they're supposed to call."

The ringing continues, shrill and piercing, and this time Tony catches my eye from his place by the window. "Then who is it? I doubt that guy at the desk is calling to ask if we're enjoying our stay."

"There is only one way to find out," I reply and pick the phone up off its cradle on the seventh ring. "Yes, what is it?" I answer brusquely, in French.

"Ziva," the voice replies, "It is refreshing to know you haven't lost your charm."

I know that voice. I know it like I know my own, but it is impossible that I am hearing it now. Liraz Reut was killed in Istanbul by Mossad officers sent after me and Tony. She was caught in the crossfire simply because she was helping us and we have had to live with that guilt. That was months ago, and it took a great deal of time to accept her death and my part in it. This cruel prank has not amused me at all.

"Who is this?" I ask viciously, my jaw trembling. "And how do you know my name?"

"Why do you sound so shocked?" the Liraz-Voice asks. "I know it's been a while since we've spoken last, but you're overreacting. I would have called sooner, but I could not be sure it was safe."

"This is a sick joke," I seethe. "I am going to hang up on you now."

"Ziva!"

"The person you are cruelly imitating died months ago, you bastard!"

"What are you talking about?" she asks, and her confusion seems genuine. "I'm fine. Obviously, since I'm currently _speaking to you_."

It is all too easy to believe. Their act truly is a convincing one.

"Ask me a question. Something only I would know," the voice instructs.

I clear my throat. "Our first assignment together involved stealing a dossier from a very important office when we were fifteen. What was the middle name of the man whose dossier we stole?"

"Samuel," the voice answered. It was correct. For the first time tonight, I began to consider that the voice may be telling the truth. Could it be possible?

"You were not… you escaped?" I ask, momentarily forgetting that Martin and Tony are waiting on bated breath to be told what is happening on the other end of this conversation. They can wait. "Tony and I were just on the other side of the wall. You were surrounded by Mossad, trying to explain yourself. He had it against your head. We heard the gunshot and…"

"He fired it into the air, Ziva," she says gently. "I was never injured in Istanbul. They took me back to Tel Aviv to be interrogated by your father, who cleared me of any wrongdoing. He believed my story that I had tracked you to Istanbul myself and was trying to convince you to return on your own volition when his officers found me. I didn't tell him because I feared it would cost precious time or that he would try to stop me."

"And he believed it," I finish for her.

"Hook, line and sinker. As the Americans say," she says with a chuckle.

"Can that really have happened?" I ask incredulously. "Could this really be true? I thought – _we _thought – that we had lost you forever. That our own mistakes were responsible for your death."

"Apparently not," she says and chuckles. "If anyone's mistakes will lead to my death, I prefer that they be of my own making."

"Clever," I reply and she laughs. "We had genuinely believed all this time that you had been killed. It makes hearing your voice even more out of place."

"Do I sound strange?"

I laugh. "It has been the most pleasant surprise we have had yet."

"I bet you say that to all the girls."

I cannot help my own smile. "Well, then. I can only suppose that you have shown up after months of silence in order to save the day once again."

"It would appear so," she sighs. "You must have known that this couldn't last forever, Ziva. It was going to end one way or the other."

"I know. But I think we all would have preferred alternate circumstances."

Tony and Martin have conferred among themselves from their respective seats and from the look on Martin's face, Tony has regaled him of our journey to Paris and the friend we thought we had lost. Tony is looking at me patiently, telling me to take my time, but it is obvious that he is anxious to have a direction. I do not blame him; we have lived in a state of uncertainty for far too long.

"I understand," she tells me. "Is it possible to put me on speaker?"

"Not on this phone. Just a moment," I say and Martin offers the number to his throwaway cell phone. Moments later, Liraz calls again and is put on speaker.

"Maybe your name should have been Liraz-arus. Ha. Haha," Tony says, offering a lame joke as his own greeting. "I'm hilarious."

"Good God. Shut him up," Martin says with a groan and Liraz laughs on the other end of the line.

"Who's speaking now?"

"Martin," the man says, introducing himself. "Friend of a friend, nice to meet you."

"It's a pleasure," she replies and coughs a little. "Unfortunately, we have no time for pleasantries. We have a very specific goal with very options as to how we can attain it. Can anyone tell me what that goal happens to be?"

"Get rid of Eli David," Tony says coldly, "Which gets the heat off killing us as well as assuring that Mossad goes back to the good ol' days. Am I right?"

"It's true that Eli David has begun abusing his power," Liraz confirms and I brace myself against the unpleasant jolt associated with this thought. "Unfortunately, I do not know the extent to which this is true. He could just be reworking some contacts or… or he could be doing something worse."

"Working with the terrorist cells he should be eradicating," I offer, because this is my theory. There has to be a reason he was so adamant about bringing me into his latest operation in Somalia. Had he not required me to kill Tony, I may have been in Africa now rather than plotting how to remove my father from office.

"That is possible, yes," she admits. "To get down to the bottom line, we have only three options: one, we could work to get Tony and Ziva new lives in Witness Protection or in another country and hope that Eli gives up on finding them."

Martin scoffs. "Is that actually possible? I know some people who would consider 'gone' to be synonymous with 'dead' but I don't see this Eli David to be one of them."

"It's not likely, no," Liraz answers. "The second option is splitting up and hoping that Eli gives up on finding them. He will have a harder time of finding them if they're separate anyway."

"Not happening. What's option three?" Tony asks, wincing. He already knows the answer, as do I.

"We get you back to Israel as quickly and as safely as possible, and we remove Eli David from the picture – by whatever means necessary. That doesn't necessarily have to involve his death but… but there is a good chance he won't give us another alternative. He is notoriously stubborn, particularly when his position in Mossad is threatened."

"You know what we have to do, Liraz," I say calmly.

"No. No. No no no no no no no," Tony says loudly, jumping up from his chair. "Absolutely not. No."

Martin and Liraz speak at the same time. "Tony..."

"Hey!" he yells in the direction of the phone. "You two don't get to discuss this. Ziva and I get to discuss this."

"We have to do something," I say frankly. "And I do not see another alternative."

"We're not doing this, Zee," he says and any hint of laughter has gone from his eyes. "We are going to get the hell out of France – out of Europe completely – and then we're going to keep our heads down until we can go home. That's it – end of story."

"I welcome you to do that, Tony," I say honestly. "Please go home. Go be with Gibbs and McGee and Abby. Keep them safe and give them my love. I know my father will not follow you."

He stares. "You're not telling me to leave without you."

"I cannot ask you to do this," I tell him. "This is something that I need to do. I have to do this for me, for you, and for the team and my country. I am leaving for Israel and taking care of my father, no matter what the cost."

"I can't believe we're at the same place we were a few months ago," he says incredulously. "What was wrong with how we lived before tonight? It was you and me, against the world and we were doing it! We had our apartment, we had friends and family, and we had something to _fucking_ look forward to! Why wasn't that good enough for you?"

"It is good enough for me! That is why I have to hope for the chance to be that again, but not as someone else," I say earnestly. "If I go and do this, if I face my father and take away his ability to hurt anyone, we can have our lives back as _us. _We can have that apartment and friends and family as Tony and Ziva rather than John and Maria."

He's breathing heavily now. "Is that what you want. A life as Tony and Ziva?"

"Yes."

"And that's what we'll have after this? A life as Tony and Ziva?"

"Yes."

"Alright then," he says quietly. "It looks like we have our answer."

* * *

"They have chosen to return to Israel."

My stomach drops. I knew already that they'd picked the dumb answer, but it didn't make it any easier to hear from stupid whatever-her-name-is. (That's not fair, I know – she saved them and all – but I'm in no mood to be fair now.)

"Well that's just super," I say sarcastically and Gibbs cuts his eyes in my direction. I hear Tim clear his throat and he moves a little closer to me.

"Abby…"

"No, don't," I say. "Let's just… let's just worry about getting them home. I'll throw a fit later."

"That's my girl," Gibbs says to me and I force a watery smile. "Well, Officer? What can we do to get this show on the road?"


	26. Contingencies

**Author's Note:**

**Okay, lovely readers... by the end of this chapter, you'll have noticed that things get a little steamy. I've tried to keep it PG-13, but don't be afraid to let me know if I should change the rating to M. Enjoy! :)**

**Part Three: Israel (II)**

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

"**Contingencies" **

It has been a long, agonizing, exhaustive week. We arrived in Tel Aviv an hour ago, immediately seeking shelter from prying eyes. As far as we could tell, we were not identified in our travels nor were we followed to our motel.

Leaving France was difficult, but not compared to the sprawling journey across Europe and into the Middle East… there were many close calls along the way, but they were from national authorities rather from Mossad. Although the ripples of what we did in Paris must have reached my father by now, we have not yet seen the fallout. Perhaps all of his men were sent to where we were last seen, but I doubt that. He had to know that we would burn those identities and go somewhere new. Greece has always been a favorite of mine; maybe he thought to look for me there.

Tony has been stoic a long time. He hardly talks, and even his appetite has suffered. He touches me often – long, lingering grazes as well as brief contact – but rarely meets me eyes. He won't tell me why and insists that we're fine, but I am skeptical. He lets me take Liraz's calls and does not ask what we spoke about. I think he assumes that the important things will be relayed eventually and he is not wrong. Martin at least is a bit more proactive, always asking about potential changes in plans or anything he can do to help.

"The house is our only option," Martin says, bringing me back into the present. "If we try to abduct the deputy director in the middle of Mossad, we won't live long enough make even a single bloody demand. You can count on that."

"Agreed," Tony says simply.

"We will need help with the security systems if this is the case," I tell them. "My father has never been one to shrimp on such matters."

"Skimp," Tony and Martin say simultaneously.

"Whatever," I reply, annoyed that they could be noticing my linguistic inaccuracies at a time like this. "The point is that this will not be something we can handle ourselves. He has multiple systems through multiple companies, one of them the military system of choice. He probably has some that not even I know about. We cannot do that on our own."

"So what are we going to do?" Martin asks sarcastically, "Run back home?"

"No. Liraz has assured us that she has the security aspect under control."

"And we just have to hope she knows about all of them?" Tony scoffs. "If there's one thing this little field trip has taught me, it's not to trust a single damn person who's breathing. What makes you think Liraz even knows about everything he has installed?"

"My father trusts Liraz, and I trust her. If one single person in Mossad knows everything, it is his senior analyst. We have to trust her or we never even get close," I say honestly, knowing that my father underestimates her cunning and overestimates her loyalty. "We take the house, at night, in between guard changes. I can get in the back of the house, through his study, but I need to ensure that he is at the front of the house when I do so."

"Let me," Tony offers. "I can show up and he'll be so freaked at seeing me that he'll give me all the attention he's capable of, giving you the green light to come in."

"That is dangerous, Tony."

"No kidding. What part of this operation isn't?"

"And if David kills you on sight?" Martin asks pointedly. "What then?"

"Ziva still has her in, while he's getting rid of the body," Tony replies and my stomach does a nauseated flip. He sees my face and sighs. "That's not going to happen, though. I'll get his attention in a way that doesn't involve getting killed."

"Such as?"

"Offering to give up your whereabouts," he tells me and I have to admit that it is a good plan. "I can tell him that I'm giving you up in exchange for a pardon and a chance to go back to NCIS. He'll least listen to me long enough."

"It's good," Martin says. "You okay with that, Ziva?"

"It will have to do," I say.

"And what happens once we're in?" Martin questions. "What then?"

"We end this, finally," I reply, picturing the cool metal in my palm as I pull the trigger. My father will bleed, die, and then I will walk away from him forever. I do not have to tell my companions that I understand this – the looks on their faces tell me they understand well enough without my justifications.

"Maybe we should write something to, you know, leave behind," Tony offers, "Just something that can go to our families if something happens to us."

Martin nods. "Yeah, it couldn't hurt. I'll ship them out to an old friend of mine, and if something happens to us they'll get sent out."

"The hotel has some paper and pens," I say, reaching into the nightstand. "If someone can find envelopes, we are well provided for."

Minutes later we have pens in hand and are seated at our respective table, searching for words that are not coming easily. Tony's list of names and mine are identical – Gibbs, McGee, Abby, Ducky, and the Nouvels. If he intends to write his father, he does not say so. Obviously I will not be writing mine. But another name comes to mind, and it is one I could not bear to ignore. The thought of leaving this person behind, without a word, brings tears to my eyes. Suddenly convinced of my actions, I take another piece of paper and envelopes from the stack. My hand shakes a bit as I start to write words that pain me.

_Dearest Tony…_

* * *

Martin leaves before dark, claiming to want a stiff drink and some sleep. What he really wants is time to collect his thoughts and to brace himself for tomorrow. We can hardly blame him. I am the one who closes the door behind him, feeling the latch catch in the frame and sliding the bolt into place. As I lift the security chain into place I lean against the door, resting my forehead against the cool weight of it. My body feels unbelievably heavy, even as I feel Tony come to stand behind me.

"He's a good man," Tony says softly and then, without pretense, he adds, "Do you think he's going to make it back to his family?"

I shake my head. "We cannot know, Tony."

"And us?" he asks, resting his hands on my hips. "Do you think we're going to make it out of your father's house alive?"

"I do not have that answer," I reply, feeling the tears building up steadily behind my eyes. "We are three people attempting a coup. If the cards treat us well, all may go as planned. If not, our plans have the potential to go very, very badly."

"God, Zee," he gasps, burying his face in my hair. "Why? Why are we doing this? We could have been in the states by now, if not home. Why couldn't you have come back to DC with me, where you belong?"

"We could never have been free," I reply. "Not in any way that matters."

"I can't lose you," he says and shudders. I take a deep breath, holding back sobs. "Please, please promise me that I'm not going to have to live without you." His hands trace my ribcage. "Please, Ziva. I'm begging you."

My eyes brim with tears as I consider a promise I cannot possibly make. In the end, I choose the coward's way out. Rather than being honest with him, I slowly nod my head. "I promise."

He lifts up the hem of my shirt and brushes the skin there. "Tell me."

His lips find the stretch of skin behind my ear. My blood begins to heat. My skin begs for attention. He nips gently and my eyes close, my grasp on reality swaying with every second he stays molded to me. Amidst feverish scrapes of skin he murmurs the same words of and over. I am no longer sure if he wants an answer.

"What?" I ask breathlessly as his hands clench my hips, almost surely bruising them. "Tell you what?"

"Tell me you love me," he whispers, his voice ragged and his breath hot against my ear. He pulls my arms up and pins them to the door, my heated skin flush against the frigid surface. "Tell me you're not going to leave me here without you."

"I love you," I gasp as he runs his hands down my body and up again. "I love you and I could not leave you."

"I'm not letting you go," he tells me as he inches my skirt higher and higher up. "I'm never letting you go."

He does not kiss me, although I am not sure why. My questions quickly evaporate into the air around us as barriers of cloth and fear fall away. Tony does not have to tell me how afraid he is of what we face tomorrow, nor do I have to tell him that all the promises in the world cannot protect us. No, we do not say these things. Instead we confess love in tremulous voices, whisper prayers on heavy breaths as they leave our bodies. His touches are greedy. My pleas are desperate. The reality around us is immaterial – there is only the next sensation, the next glide of his skin against mine.

Just after every muscle in my body has tensed and a harsh cry is torn from my lungs, Tony finally turns my head to meet my lips in a soft kiss. The intensity of this simple gesture reverberates through my entire being, and then the moment has passed us by. He closes his eyes and the tension in him breaks with a rush of air across my lips and the pressure of his arm as he tightens his grip around my ribs. It takes a moment, but his green eyes open again and meet mine. It is then that I thank every God I know for giving him to me.

When I die tomorrow, this will be my only thought.


	27. Author's Note and Preview

**Author's Note:**

**Lovely, lovely readers. By now I'm sure you've noticed that this isn't a full chapter. Rather, it's a sign of good faith. I want you all to know that I haven't given up on this story. It's still very much on my mind, and I have every intention of finishing it. You'll get your ending, I promise. I just wish I could give you more consistent, timely updates. **

**You'll have the rest of this chapter soon, though. I'm finishing up my finals next week and after that this will have my undivided attention. Don't give up on me, okay? Enjoy this small preview of the coming chapter, and have a safe and beautiful holiday season. :)**

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

**Preparations**

"If this man has one more bloody cup of coffee I'll bludgeon him to death myself," Martin grumbles and I chuckle.

"You can take comfort in the fact that caffeine increases risk of breast cancer," I reply and he snorts. I can almost see Ziva rolling her eyes a few hundred feet from here, with our voices in her ear. Martin laughs some more and then hiccups like he does when he's drunk.

"You're right. That is a comfort."

Eli David has left the Mossad compound five times this morning, searching for his straight black, three-sugar coffee from a little kiosk near the entrance of the building. After the third time, we stopped even tracking his movements. Martin and I are on top of a restaurant roof a block away with high-powered binoculars, sweating and obsessing over sunburns. Ziva is perched precariously closer, just outside the walls of the compound. She sits across the street, covered in grimy clothing and dirt, passing as a beggar. Her face is covered and her voice is masked. It's only been a few months, and these people don't forget things easily. When it comes to our identities we're not willing to take any chances.

"How many security people have you counted?" I ask Martin since he has the binoculars. "Twenty? Thirty?"

"Not even," he replies off-handedly. "More like two. The same two, even. I think he has the balls to assume no one can reach him while he's here."

"Didn't we decide that?"

"Well, we're _supposed_ to think it," he replies. "It's presumptuous if he does."

"I think you are forgetting that my father was once a Mossad agent himself," Ziva says, her voice muffled by the clothing covering her microphone. "He is more than capable of caring for himself. The bodyguards you are watching are only a precaution, in case he is caught off-guard."

"Like in the case of…"

"Infiltration of the building, ambush," she replies. "Snipers."

"So these guys are being paid to die for him?" I ask.

"Potentially, yes," Ziva says. "It is part of their job description. They are well aware of the risk, and if it makes you feel better, they are paid very well to do so."

"I don't think I've ever been that desperate for money," Martin adds under his breath.

"He typically has many more, though," she observes skeptically. "I wonder if my time away has made him overly confident in his invincibility. Especially if no one dares challenge him."

"Let's hope," Martin adds, "Because if he has fifty invisible guys waiting for him at home, we're not going to live to see morning."

"My father has always been paranoid, there is little doubt of that," she tells us, "But he is secretive about it because he does not want to seem weak. A man who has fifty bodyguards in his employ seems fearful, vulnerable. His image is everything to him, so he may not be willing to pacify his paranoia to the extent he normally would."

"I think that sounds like good news," I say hopefully. "Does that sound like good news to you?"

"It surely does," Martin says, not looking away from David's office building. "It's the closest we're getting to it, anyway."

"So, what's the plan?" I ask, "With or without the good news."

"We figure out who to expect first," he replies. "If we're lucky it'll stay with just the two guards he has now. Getting to his home without alerting him will be the hardest part, though. According to the map Ziva drew us he's fairly secluded, almost certainly for that reason." Ziva whispers her agreement in our ears. "But your pal Liraz has arranged for there to be a security 'hiccup' for a few minutes, just enough time for us to get into position without any kind of alarm going off."

"Hiccups are good," I reply.

"Let's hope so," he says skeptically.

I continue my well-rehearsed part. "Right about that time, I'm going to show up on Daddy David's door, promising to give up Ziva so I can go back to the States. If everything else fails, it'll at least give you the window to get into position before the security systems come back online."

"Ziva and I will scale the back wall of the premises, waiting for your go-ahead to jump to the roof. I'll stay there to act as a look-out and Ziva will cross the distance to the balcony outside his study, where she'll sneak in and go from there," Martin says in a voice that seems surprisingly optimistic. When I ask him about it, all he has to say is, "I've had worse odds. Much worse."

"I think we all have," Ziva says in a knowing voice, "But not much worse."

Martin grunts his agreement and then all is silent.

"Thanks for the cheer, guys," I say sarcastically and look up at the unbearably bright desert sun. All that's left to do now is sit and wait and watch David get eight hundred cups of coffee. I'll be lucky if I'm still sane by the time it's time for us to move out.

_**To Be Continued...**_


	28. Preparations

**Author's Note: **

**As promised, readers, you have your next chapter. I adore you all – please enjoy and tell me what you think. I've missed you, believe me.**

**(P.S. – I know nothing about security systems or technology. I've made all this up so please forgive me if it's totally implausible. I also have no beta – the lovely Mina is in law school now and has no time for editing – so any and all errors are mine.) **

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

**Preparations**

"If this man has one more bloody cup of coffee I'll bludgeon him to death myself," Martin grumbles and I chuckle.

"You can take comfort in the fact that caffeine increases risk of breast cancer," I reply and he snorts. I can almost see Ziva rolling her eyes a few hundred feet from here, with our voices in her ear. Martin laughs some more and then hiccups like he does when he's drunk.

"You're right. That is a comfort."

Eli David has left the Mossad compound five times this morning, searching for his straight black, three-sugar coffee from a little kiosk near the entrance of the building. After the third time, we stopped even tracking his movements. Martin and I are on top of a restaurant roof a block away with high-powered binoculars, sweating and obsessing over sunburns. Ziva is perched precariously closer, just outside the walls of the compound. She sits across the street, covered in grimy clothing and dirt, passing as a beggar. Her face is covered and her voice is masked. It's only been a few months, and these people don't forget things easily. When it comes to our identities we're not willing to take any chances.

"How many security people have you counted?" I ask Martin since he has the binoculars. "Twenty? Thirty?"

"Not even," he replies off-handedly. "More like two. The same two, even. I think he has the balls to assume no one can reach him while he's here."

"Didn't we decide that?"

"Well, we're _supposed_ to think it," he replies. "It's presumptuous if he does."

"I think you are forgetting that my father was once a Mossad agent himself," Ziva says, her voice muffled by the clothing covering her microphone. "He is more than capable of caring for himself. The bodyguards you are watching are only a precaution, in case he is caught off-guard."

"Like in the case of…"

"Infiltration of the building, ambush," she replies. "Snipers."

"So these guys are being paid to die for him?" I ask.

"Potentially, yes," Ziva says. "It is part of their job description. They are well aware of the risk, and if it makes you feel better, they are paid very well to do so."

"I don't think I've ever been that desperate for money," Martin adds under his breath.

"He typically has many more, though," she observes skeptically. "I wonder if my time away has made him overly confident in his invincibility. Especially if no one dares challenge him."

"Let's hope," Martin adds, "Because if he has fifty invisible guys waiting for him at home, we're not going to live to see morning."

"My father has always been paranoid, there is little doubt of that," she tells us, "But he is secretive about it because he does not want to seem weak. A man who has fifty bodyguards in his employ seems fearful, vulnerable. His image is everything to him, so he may not be willing to pacify his paranoia to the extent he normally would."

"I think that sounds like good news," I say hopefully. "Does that sound like good news to you?"

"It surely does," Martin says, not looking away from David's office building. "It's the closest we're getting to it, anyway."

"So, what's the plan?" I ask, "With or without the good news."

"We figure out who to expect first," he replies. "If we're lucky it'll stay with just the two guards he has now. Getting to his home without alerting him will be the hardest part, though. According to the map Ziva drew us he's fairly secluded, almost certainly for that reason." Ziva whispers her agreement in our ears. "But your pal Liraz has arranged for there to be a security 'hiccup' for a few minutes, just enough time for us to get into position without any kind of alarm going off."

"Hiccups are good," I reply.

"Let's hope so," he says skeptically.

I continue my well-rehearsed part. "Right about that time, I'm going to show up on Daddy David's door, promising to give up Ziva so I can go back to the States. If everything else fails, it'll at least give you the window to get into position before the security systems come back online."

"Ziva and I will scale the back wall of the premises, waiting for your go-ahead to jump to the roof. I'll stay there to act as a look-out and Ziva will cross the distance to the balcony outside his study, where she'll sneak in and go from there," Martin says in a voice that seems surprisingly optimistic. When I ask him about it, all he has to say is, "I've had worse odds. Much worse."

"I think we all have," Ziva says in a knowing voice, "But not much worse."

Martin grunts his agreement and then all is silent.

"Thanks for the cheer, guys," I say sarcastically and look up at the unbearably bright desert sun. All that's left to do now is sit and wait and watch David get eight hundred cups of coffee. I'll be lucky if I'm still sane by the time it's time for us to move out.

* * *

Darkness falls quickly, giving us a slight reprieve from the sweltering heat. Not long after we detect signs of movement in my father's office. It is odd to watch his tired shuffle from the Mossad doors to his car, lugging his black leather briefcase. He looks old, I think as I watch him slide into the back seat. It is strange to see him this way; he usually appears cocky, self-assured. He believes he is invincible. Now, the same man's arrogant swagger is hardly recognizable. I am sure he would have something very similar to stay about me should someone have the nerve to ask him.

Following him out of Tel Aviv proves to be the longest portion of our day, as we have to time our journey in such a way that he does not suspect he is being followed. He is unescorted this time, with the exception of his driver. Other security will be waiting for him once he reaches his house. My father lives in a very wealthy suburb of Tel Aviv reserved for diplomats and other high-ranking government officials. Although, truthfully, it is much less like a suburb than it is like a sprawling country club. The homes are far enough apart to offer seclusion but close enough to offer strength in numbers. His neighbors will certainly see if his house catches fire, but they will not see me climbing up the side and sneaking in a window. That simple fact is possibly the only thing we have going for us.

His car disappears behind the wrought-iron gate and we have only moments to scale the stone wall that borders his property. Tony stays behind, waiting until we are in place before he strolls up to the door. The wall is only a little less than seven feet tall but Martin and I both feel the strain as we pull ourselves up to the top. The long cut on my arm from Omari's shard of glass burns like fire but fortunately I do not feel the makeshift stitches tear. It has been quite some time since we had to do anything like this; longer for Martin, certainly, than for me. I tried to keep myself in fighting shape but things come up and it becomes easy to make excuses. The most I have accomplished in three months was lifting a particularly heavy box of inventory at the bookstore.

Martin grins when he hears his knees pop repeatedly.

"Makes me sound old, doesn't it?"

My elbow pops loudly in reply.

"I am not one to judge."

Once we are on top of the wall we keep crouched low and move along the sizeable perimeter of the house until we are facing the back of it, where three floors of terraces act as adornments for the already luxurious home. It was a foolish move by my father, I think; it leaves the back half of the house easily accessible. Not to the average person, perhaps, because of the twelve foot gap in between the stone wall and the second-floor terrace. For me, however? For me it is hardly more than a stretch. He should have been more careful.

Shaded in the branches of the large ficus benjamina tree my father so adores, Martin and I take a moment to pop in the ear pieces Liraz fashioned for us and dropped off earlier today. They slip into our ears easily and the first thing we hear is jarring white noise at an almost unbearable volume. The shock almost pushes my companion out of the tree entirely before he grabs a branch and holds tight. He blinks a few times once it is over and curses under his breath before muttering, "I'd forgotten how much I despise those blasted things."

I smile and listen patiently while the noise clears up and is replaced by rhythmic clicks. Another burst of static comes through and then it is a voice – a single, miraculous voice that almost has me in tears.

"Ziva?" McGee asks, his voice oddly clear over the thousands of miles between us.

"Tim," I whisper longingly. Has it been so long since I have heard McGee's voice?

"Guys, if you're talking I can't hear you. I'm just going to assume that Tony will keep talking anyway, just keep in mind that I'm not getting any of it," he quips and laughter bubbles up unwillingly in my chest. "If you'll give me a second or two I'll get your microphones up and working. They're not responding to my software upgrades."

"What in the hell is he saying?" Martin mouths to me and I shake my head.

"Got it!" he announces. "Try talking now."

Of course, Tony speaks up first. "Probie? Is that you?"

"Yeah, Tony, it's me," McGee replies, laughing, and I am suddenly hit with memories from another life. Abby's smile, McGee's enthusiastic laugh, and even the sound of Gibbs' palms on the backs of our heads. The feeling is almost euphoric. For the first time in months, with McGee's voice in my head, I am beginning to feel like it could be possible to go back to that life.

"Holy cow. You don't know how good it is to hear your voice, McGoo."

"Yeah," McGee replies. "You too. Is Ziva with us?"

"I am here, McGee," I whisper. "Can you hear me?"

"Yeah, you're coming in fine. Ask Martin to speak up for me."

"Bollocks."

McGee clears his throat and Martin laughs. "Yeah. I hear him fine."

"So what are we doing, Probie?" Tony asks, his voice muffled by distance. "Sadly, you're the brains for this suicide mission."

"It's not suicide, Tony," he admonishes but does not allow time for a rebuttal. "As it turns out, Deputy Director David has gotten lax in his home security since the two of you went on the run. He has one system that's controlled through two master panels. One is inside the house and the other is on the inside of the front gate for use by his security. Your friend said to expect two bodyguards at the house – one will be guarding the gate, he'll be the one to let Tony in, and another one will likely be wandering around the premises. Keep an eye out for that one."

"Copy that," Martin says gruffly.

"The driver's already gone," Tony adds. "He drove off a few minutes ago."

"Good. He'll have less of an escape route," Martin says.

"When Tony approaches the gate with his speech ready, the guard will have to disarm the entire system so the gate and the front door can open without all the bells and whistles going off. That's when I'm going to hack in and override the system, freezing the input so they'll think the system re-armed itself automatically without realizing that it never armed itself at all. So, as soon as Tony's in, that's when Ziva and Martin make their way into the house itself without worrying about the security system. From there, though, I'm not going to be much help. He has cameras around the house but all I'll be able to do is watch you. I'll warn you if someone's coming your way."

"I would consider that very useful, McGee," I assure him.

"So really, we're just waiting on Tony to make his appearance."

Tony chuckles but the sound lacks any humor. "I guess so. Ziva?"

"Yes?" I say, my chest constricting unpleasantly.

"Take care of yourself," he says, his voice soft, and then as an afterthought adds, "You too, Martin."

"Will do, Tony."

"Well," he sighs mournfully, "Here goes nothing."


	29. Misdirections

**Author's Note:**

**I know! Another chapter so soon! I don't even know what to do with myself right now. So enjoy! Hopefully 29 will be done just as quickly. Please review and let me know that I still have readers. **

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

**Misdirections**

On nights he is unable to find peace, Eli David paces instead. He puts on the lush wool slippers that were a gift from his mother over a decade ago, walks down the long hallway to the den he designed with his son in mind, and worriedly paces the dark hardwood floor. There are faint wear patterns on the floor there, from endless nights of his feet shifting back and forth. He knows the number of steps it takes to cross the large space when he's angry or tense (twelve) as well as the number of steps it takes when he's distracted or distant (fifteen and a half). He knows the exact time of night based on the angle of moonlight through the heavy green curtains. The smell that occupies the space, a slightly musky combination of leather and cigar smoke, occasionally plagues him when he's tense in places other than his home. On those nights, he neglects food or comfort and instead seeks out his floor.

This is not one of those nights.

Tonight he is calm; content, even. He's been home almost an hour now and has eaten his dinner, prepared by the cook who leaves well before Eli ever gets home. He's removed his tie and jacket and placed them gently on the chaise lounge, where they'll be until they're put away the next morning by the maid who comes every day. He's examined the phone messages left for him and decided which ones merit his immediate response – none of them do. He's just about to removes his shoes for the night when his intercom buzzes, interrupting his slow unwind from the day.

"Yes, what is it?"

"Sir, you won't believe this."

He exhales loudly, already irritated with the man's desire to play guessing games. "What won't I believe?"

"Anthony DiNozzo, the American, is standing at the front gate."

All thoughts of his shoes have now ceased.

"Is he armed?"

"No, sir. He has nothing. He only says that he wants a meeting, not an altercation."

It only takes a moment for Eli to decide that he will allow Agent DiNozzo into his house. It takes slightly longer to decide why the man would be willing to surrender himself to Mossad at nine o'clock at night, alone. And why would he choose Eli David's home, of all places? He wonders why he is not with Ziva. The death of Nathaniel Omari tells him that Ziva survived their encounter but she has not made an appearance since, nor has she sent him any kind of message. He's unsure of if that is a good sign or a bad one, but there was only one way to know for sure.

"Let him in."

Eli enters the password that allows passage into his estate and waits a few seconds for the guard to enter the other half of the code. The wait isn't long – the blinking red light flashes a prolonged bright green to herald the American's entrance into his enemy's home. A few minutes later, a touch to his door bell alerts him to their presence at his door. He opens it and sees his guard alongside a man who looks very different when compared to the man he knew months ago.

DiNozzo's hair is slightly longer and messier than Eli remembers it. His eyes are the same cloudy green-gray but are framed by far more lines than he's sure the man cares to admit. Rather than the tailored suits he occupied in his life at NCIS, he is wearing ragged cargo pants and a black cotton shirt. His face is slightly sunburned. The mild conceit that kept a smile on the man's face and his nose turned slightly upward was nowhere to be found. He seems older and quieter. It appears as though life without the luxuries has treated the man very, very poorly.

"It's interesting that you came here, Anthony," Eli says quietly.

"It's interesting that you let me in, Eli," he returns but without any trace of his usual cocky sarcasm. "Can we talk?"

"Please," he says and stands aside so the man can step past time. "Jacob, I believe we'll be fine. Thank you."

The man nods and closes the door. Eli briefly notices the green light of the security board turning back to its typical blinking red. Then, all is quiet. He turns and finds his one-time adversary standing calmly in the middle of the foyer, examining his surroundings. If he has any ulterior motives, they're not immediately apparent. Eli clears his throat to break whatever trance DiNozzo is trapped in. He turns around to face him.

"Follow me into the main house. Can I get you a drink?" he asks hospitably, though not off his guard. DiNozzo nods.

"Scotch, if you have it."

Eli leads him through an overly ornate dining room and through a small sitting room to the kitchen. It's large with pristine black tile floors and cream-colored walls. The wet bar is an island in the middle of the floor. He finds the good scotch and pours two fingers into two bar glasses. He slides one to DiNozzo and keeps the other for himself, taking a full drink from it before regarding the man again.

"Why are you here, Agent DiNozzo?"

"I'm not an agent anymore," he replies. "And that's what I'm here for."

"Do you believe I would, or even_ could_, return you to NCIS?" he asks, genuinely surprised. "You killed an office of mine. Michael was a good man. Why would you possibly presume I would help you?"

"Because I'm willing to offer you what you couldn't have otherwise," DiNozzo replies, draining his glass with two loud gulps and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'll give you Ziva."

* * *

I listen to Tony's conversation with the guard on bated breath, waiting to hear yelling or the sound of gunfire. It does not come, however – the only sounds we hear are words garbled by the cloth of Tony's pockets, where he has hidden his earpiece to keep from garnering suspicion. The guard, shocked, simply tells my father who is there to see him and though I cannot hear him through Tony's microphone, I assume that my father agrees to let them in. I hear the gate opening and McGee's quick announcement that they are disarming the system. A minute later, he informs us that he's placed the block in the system and that we are free to continue.

"Ready?" Martin asks, pulling his revolver from its holster and checking the magazine.

"Does it matter?" I ask him in return, strapping a blade to my thigh.

"Not a bit." He hands me one of his guns and I tuck it into the holster on my hip. "Are you going to kill him?"

The question stuns me. "What do you think?"

"I think it's instinct for you, just like it is for me," he says and I want to abandon this line of questioning. "I thought that about you when I first met you in Paris."

"Did you?" I ask. I only remember being cold, sleepy, and hungry. I do not remember being intimidating.

"Yeah. It's amazing how much you've changed since then," he says pointedly and then promptly changes the subject before I can question him about his point. "Time to go, I think. I'll watch out for you."

"McGee," I ask aloud, "Are they safely out of view?"

"Of you, yeah," he replies in our earpieces. "They're in the kitchen, talking. I say you've got some time."

"Then that's our cue," Martin says and stands aside, waiting for me to begin my part of the plan. Tony's done his part – now it is my turn to take the leap.

"Thank you, Martin. For everything," I say and pull him into a hug before he can shrink away from it. "But I need you to do one more thing for me."

"What's that?"

"If something happens, if something goes wrong, I want you to get Tony out of here," I say and Martin starts to roll his eyes. "No, I am serious. Tony is unarmed and vulnerable. I am at least capable of defending myself. Please, please promise me you'll get him out."

He nods. "Yeah, I'll do it. Just go."

My destination is the third floor, where my father keeps his office. It is the only window he has ever kept unlocked – he paces there at night and does not want the alarm connected to that window because he opens it frequently and does not want to deal with disarming it. It used to worry me, despite the fact that not many people knew that. Now I am using it to my advantage. Still atop the stone wall, I give Martin a nod and make the long leap toward the second-floor terrace.

My lack of activity shows now – rather than easily making the jump to the railing and climbing over, I barely graze the structure and have to grasp desperately at the rails to keep myself from falling onto the brightly lit patio. This time I feel a stitch in my forearm tear and it makes me wince. I force my arms to support my weight as my damp hands grasp at the slick bars in hopes of finding some safe ground. My muscles strain and my legs flex, waiting for the opportunity to find solid ground. Just when I think I have gained enough distance to throw my legs over the side, a firm hand on my ankle has me falling back to the ground.

* * *

"You're joking," Eli says, obviously surprised.

"Why would I kid about that?" DiNozzo replies, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm tired, David. I'm so tired. I'm tired of the running and the fear and the paranoia. I'm done. I'm ready to give you whatever it is you want so I can go home."

"And you think I want Ziva?"

DiNozzo stares at him. "Don't you?"

"Oh, admittedly, I have desired a counsel with my daughter for some time now. But that does not mean I'm willing to trade a few petty words with her to give you whatever you want." He takes another drink of lukewarm scotch. "What is it you want, exactly?"

"My life back," the man offers simply. "I want to go home, and I want to go back to work for NCIS. I want my car and my apartment back. That's it. I just want to go home knowing you won't follow me or hurt me or someone I care about."

"And Ziva?"

"What about her?"

"Isn't she someone you care about?" Eli asks carefully, searching for any signs of a tell on his features. "She certainly used to be. Why are you no longer together?"

"Oh, we're supposed to be meeting somewhere in three days," he replies. "But with any luck I won't be there. She only cares about herself – you have to know that by now. She didn't care about Michael and she didn't care about me. I'm not risking my life for someone who doesn't give a shit about me either way."

Eli can't help but chuckle at this. "You speak very candidly about my daughter, Mr. DiNozzo. Not many people dare to, particularly in my presence."

"Hey," he replies, "You asked. I answered."

"That you did," Eli says, nodding. "And if I told you I was interested in this arrangement?"

DiNozzo smiles. "Then I say we're well on our way to an agreement."

"Where is she?"

"Where's my guarantee you won't have me killed as soon as I'm done telling you?" he asks and Eli smiles.

"What is the use?" he says. "Much like the headache Michael's death caused for NCIS, I have no desire to do the same when I explain your death to America's authorities. This arrangement would be mutually beneficial – maybe more so for me, as you would be a walking example of my mercy and leniency with Israel's allies."

"Okay, fair enough," he says and sighs loudly. "She's in Spanish Basque. She told me to wait a few days before showing up so we weren't seen together. I think she's hoping I get caught on my way in, since I can't blend in these situations nearly as well as she can."

"And how have you been doing all this traveling, might I ask?" Eli says, curious beyond his ability to keep quiet about it. "It is no easy feat to travel as wanted terrorists across international borders."

"Connections I didn't even know," DiNozzo responds. "Ziva kept making phone calls and people kept showing up. I didn't hear a single name the whole time we were there. I guess she didn't think she could trust me."

"I do not think Ziva ever really trusts anyone, so you shouldn't be insulted," he says and sets down his glass. "I believe we've found ourselves in agreement. Let me go upstairs and make some calls. You'll be on a plane to American soil tomorrow."

DiNozzo smiles and lifts his glass in toast. "Cheers to that."

* * *

The hard ground breaks my fall, knocking the air from my lungs, and seconds later there is a gun in my face. It is attached to a hairy, muscular arm in a business jacket. My father's personal security. The man has not yet had time to register my identity before two large hands cover his forehead and chin and yank them violently in opposite directions. He dies wordlessly, falling down to lie beside me on the fallen leaves and densely-packed dirt. I look up at Martin and nod my thanks. He pulls back to my feet and gives me a leg-up to the terrace. With the solid ground of my father's home beneath by feet, my adrenaline begins to peak and I find myself slipping into the blank frame of mind that made me such a successful killer.

There is no longer a safety net for me - I am on my own from here.


	30. Loyalties

**Author's Note:**

**Thanks, everyone, for the marvelous reviews. I so adore hearing from you after all this time. I've been so happy the last two weeks, in fact, that I've been writing like mad. We're nearing the finish line… only about 6 chapters left now. Thanks go to Mina and my fiancé for motivating me to get back to writing, otherwise I might not have kept trying. **

**And of course, and extra thanks to you all for reading and sticking with me. :)**

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

**Loyalties**

Finding my father's office and slipping in the window is easy enough but locating him within the house without running into him head-first will be another task entirely. If my timing fails, there is a chance he will kill Tony or me before we get what we came for. The exact moment I slip in through the curtains of his office I hear his heavy footfalls in the hall outside. My timing has been terrible – if his guard had not gotten the drop on me, I would have been in this room with plenty of time to spare. Holding my breath and praying for luck, I slip into the folds of the curtains just in time to hear him walk into the room.

He clicks his tongue in the same way he used to when I was a girl, back when I or one of my siblings had done something that genuinely surprised him – good or bad. The smell of his aftershave and liquor drifts towards me on the breeze created by the open window and he looks in my direction for a few startling seconds before shaking his head and picking up the antique phone from its cradle on his desk. Trying to remain as still and invisible as possible, I quiet my breathing and attempt to calm my rioting nerves.

"Officer Reut?" he begins, clearing his throat. "Yes, I'm afraid I'll need you tonight after all. Anthony DiNozzo appeared on my doorstep tonight, offering to give up Ziva's location." He pauses for a moment, listening. "He says to try Spanish Basque but I say there is little chance she is actually there. I am sure she's somewhere nearby, possibly even in Tel Aviv. Either way, send someone to Basque and be sure. We cannot afford to take unnecessary chances. In the meantime, I need a few officers here at my home." He pauses again. "No, do not alert the Americans. The last thing I want is to deal with NCIS again after we've just barely been rid of them. Besides, in a few moments it will be as though Anthony DiNozzo was never here."

He hangs up the phone and my heart beats painfully at his thinly veiled threat against Tony's life. He starts humming, as though nothing in the world could be wrong, and that angers me enough to step out from my hiding place behind the curtains.

"Father," I say, leveling my eyes at him and pulling my weapon from its holster.

He looks up, surprised, but smirks to himself. "I knew you could not have been far behind. You two would never have separated."

"You sound very sure of yourself."

"He may have taken off the ring," he says, pointing to the ring finger on his left hand, "But he could not take off the tan line."

"You look well," I say, ignoring this line of discussion.

"As do you," he replies, looking me over. "I mean it. You looked so American for such a long time with the straight hair and all the makeup. Now it is curly again and you're not covered in face paint. You look as beautiful as any Israeli woman should. Paris treated you well."

"I do not suppose all this flattery is meant to keep me from killing you?" I ask acidly and he looks surprised. "What? You had to have known on some level that I was not going to let you hunt me forever."

"Hunt you? You spoiled, foolish child. I did not hunt you, Ziva," he says angrily. "_You_ betrayed _me_! I asked you to do the honorable thing, to avenge Michael's killer, and instead you choose an American playboy over your own family and your own country and whisked him away from any punishment for his crime. He killed Michael and will never suffer the consequences."

"Consequences?" I ask incredulously. "Being ordered to die at the hands of a partner is not punishment? Being forced from his home and his duty and his life to run from _you _are not consequences for his actions? What would you call it?"

"You chose him over family, Ziva!"

"This is not about family," I tell him, trying to keep myself calm despite knowing that he is obviously lying to me. "This is about something bigger than that."

"I don't know what you mean by this."

"Of course you do, and you are going to tell me everything," I say and turn off the safety on my gun with an audible _click_. "Or we will very quickly have nothing left to talk about."

* * *

Martin has very, very few fears. His more commonplace fears are easily avoided – snakes, daytime television, the Labour party. The only overwhelming fear he's been prey to since joining MI-6 twenty years ago is the fear of silence. The kind that sneaks in the cracks of your consciousness sand makes you feel deaf, and the kind that invades even your sleep. It's the sign of something gone horribly wrong. That kind of silence, sadly, is the only thing surrounding Martin in Tel Aviv tonight and this time he can't turn on the telly to be rid of it.

After moving the security guard's body to rest on the wall he marches around the perimeter quietly, straining his ears to pick up any sounds of distress from within the house. Nothing makes a sound. He's looked in windows to find empty rooms with no unexpected guests in them. Once he saw Tony, reclining comfortably in a lounge chair looking bored. He didn't bother catching the man's eye – the less attention he had the better. It isn't until he gets to the front of the house that he risks exposure.

The man sitting in the security booth near the front gate is already tense, fully aware of the fact that the enemy is inside the house and has probably started to suspect that something is wrong. Martin listens as he repeatedly tries to hail his counterpart and watches as the man's shoulders tense on and off with every attempt. They'll find the body soon enough, but for now the man is alone and doesn't realize it yet. After a while he picks up the phone and listens for a few moments before saying, "Yes, Officer Reut. I understand. The gate will be open."

Martin has every intention of letting him be – he sees no reason to pick fights or call attention to himself – but then the blasted earpiece squeals and he curses loud enough to be heard. The action gets the guard's attention and while Martin could run and lead the man away, he chooses not to. He takes his knife from the sheath at his angle and walks straight for the security booth, hoping to silence the man before he has the chance to alert anyone else to his presence there. In an ideal world, he would have been able to simply subdue the man, tie him up, and wait for someone else to set him free. Theirs isn't particularly a situation in which they have to worry about identification.

Alas, the man doesn't let that happen. Before Martin's aware of the motion the guard pulls his gun and puts a round in his left shoulder, knocking him to the ground. Amid the searing pain, Martin has time to wish he'd thought to wear Kevlar and curses his luck that he happens to be left-handed. He listens idly while the man calls for backup, swearing to himself. He lies calmly when the man approaches him and leans down to breathe orders into his face. He barely blinks when he buries the blade of his knife into the man's lungs with his good arm, causing the man to jolt and groan.

"I'm sorry about that, mate," he says quietly, wincing through his own pain. "I had every intention of leaving you be, I swear I did, but that's not how today's story went."

Soon the man becomes dead weight and falls on top of him, the knife piercing deeper into his chest and coating Martin's hands with blood that was far more real than it was metaphoric. Martin sighs and gasps with pain as he does his best to work his way out from under the body, cursing mercilessly under his breath as he feels the bullet wound rub this way and that. By the time he's free, a glance downward reveals and spreading crimson stain over his shoulder and chest – it was much larger than he expected. He's suddenly light-headed and mildly nauseated, and he suspects blood loss may have something to do with it. Blood loss or shock, obviously. He'll need some medical attention in the near future if he wants to make it out of this desert hell-hole, and he most definitely does.

Deciding that there's little avoiding it, he turns back toward the house with plans of blowing the previous plans out of the severely muddied water. He was going to have to interrupt Tony and Ziva's not-so-carefully laid plans. He would rush in, collect Tony, find David and kill him, collect Ziva, and be on a plane by the morning. It's his only choice, he thinks, as he reaches the door and reaches for the handle. Before he can touch the warm brass of the knob, he quickly turns to the side and violently empties the contents of his stomach. He spits, ignoring his spinning head, and curses to himself. Getting shot never did sit well with his gut. He was trying to pretend his arm still had all its feeling, but it really didn't. The bullet must have nicked something.

_I need a breather if you please, _he thinks to himself as the sound of tires on gravel escapes his attention. He leans against the heavy wooden door and sinks down to the ground, barely registering the burning of headlights against his dark-adjusted eyes. He has the slight presence of mind to put his still-functional right hand on top of his holder but doesn't bother taking it out. He only pulls it when he closes his eyes for a moment and reopens them to a strange face a few feet away.

"At ease, soldier," a woman's voice instructs him. "We're on the same team."

"Oh, yeah?" he asks sarcastically. "And what team would that be?"

"The one with a physician, luckily for you," she says just as sarcastically. She says something in rapid-fire Hebrew and Martin feels himself being pulled up from the ground, eliciting a groan of pain and another shamefully explicit string of expletives. "My men will tend to your wounds once we are inside. Now, where are Tony and Ziva?"

* * *

As if sitting in Eli David's living room with him only minutes away isn't stressful enough, I have to sit here and look fine while I know that my friends are somewhere in the house and looking for trouble. Heck, they may have even found it by now for all I know. The scotch did nothing to calm my nerves and so now I'm forced to lay back and count the minutes until something happens one way of the other. It's pretty damn close to agony. I'm contemplating running up the stairs after him when the front door bursts open and Martin is carried in, bleeding, by Rambo and his twin brother.

"Is he alive?" I ask Liraz as she sweeps into the room, surveying the room and looking for her boss.

"Yes. He'll be fine," she answers as Martin gets tossed gracelessly onto the couch. One of the men work silently on Martin's wound, ripping his shirt open on both sides and retrieving a small medical kit from one of his dozens of pockets. He examines Martin's shoulder for a minute before muttering something to Liraz in Hebrew.

"Gunshot wound," Liraz translates for Tony. "The bullet went straight through. He'll be fine once we stop the bleeding and apply stitches."

I nod. "Mossad guys? Or your personal entourage?"

"No," she replies. "They are private sector employees assigned to me by their commanders."

"That doesn't tell me anything."

"It's not supposed to."

"Secret government conspiracy?" I ask and she smiles.

"Something like that." Her eyes drift upward to the ceiling. "How long have you been here? And where is Eli?"

"I've been here about half an hour or so and Eli has been upstairs for the last fifteen minutes or so," I say and sigh. "I think he's probably found Ziva by now, but I haven't heard anything."

"She should not take so long to finish her missions," Liraz criticizes.

I shrug. "If I was Ziva I'd be wanting answers from the old man."

"As would I," she says. "Hopefully she is getting her answers."

I'm about to agree but the sound of a gunshot cuts us off. It takes us a split second to get our wits together and head for the stairs, both of us hoping that Ziva was the one with the gun.


	31. Answers

**Author's Note:**

**And finally… to the part we've all be dying to get to for almost three years now. (Can you believe that?) **

**Please enjoy, dear readers. I wrote it for you, after all. :) **

**Chapter Thirty**

**Answers**

My father's eyes show incredulity rather than outright fear or nervousness, which I find almost insulting.

"Really, Ziva?" he asks me, obviously doubtful. "You would truly kill your own father? You would murder your own flesh and blood?"

"There is only one way to find out," I say. "Talk. Tell me why you wanted me to kill Tony, and why you betrayed me and tried to have me killed."

"Killing you was never my intention," he professes urgently, "Never. I did not want you dead. I wanted you here, with me, with Mossad. Anthony DiNozzo had committed a crime, a heinous one, and I no longer felt it was safe for you there. How could I have known what he would suspect next, and from whom?"

"So you would take care of that for him?" I ask incredulously. "Do not try and double-talk with me, whining about family and country. I have heard quite enough of that for one lifetime. This tracks back to something else entirely." He grimaces and I know that I am right. All of this goes back much further than Michael's death.

"I have had quite some time to consider this, mind you. And my theory for the last few months has been that this has something to do with Michael's last assignment," I tell him confidently and he winces. "Why was he in America, Father? Neither of you ever really said. I think I assumed he was there to see me for a while, but we both know that our relationship was a cover _you _engineered."

He does not dispute that fact. I do not expect him to. Instead, he answers me with what we both know is a life. "He was there to find a link to a terrorist cell in Somalia."

"By killing all the leads he may have had to the cell? I find that highly unlikely," I tell him. "I think he was doing something completely outside of Mossad – I think he was doing something for _you_."

"You don't' know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" I ask. "Michael was the son you wished you had – you wanted to forget all about Ari by adopting Michael and taking him under your wing, grooming him to be your protégé. And Michael felt the same way! He respected and _loved _you. He craved your approval, despite his vices. That is common knowledge here. Why would he not risk his life and his career to run one of your errands?"

"And what if he did?" my father shouts. "Is that something so irrational to you? That someone would do something they are asked out of faith, out of trust, out of loyalty?"

"You are using the same words over and over again, but I do not think you know what they mean." He stare him down, refusing to give an inch. "You say you wanted me home, back in Mossad? That we are family and you wanted to protect me? You put a bomb in my apartment to destroy evidence, not knowing if I would be home when it went off. You did that knowing that you could have killed me – your only living child. How is that for faith or trust or loyalty? You may spew the sentimental family crap all you like, but no one in this room believes it."

"Enough," he says. "You will listen to nothing I say anyway."

I sigh, because he is not wrong. The only thing to leave his mouth since I entered the room is lie after lie, slicked over with pretty words and insincerity. Fearing that we have reached an impasse, I consider simply pulling the trigger and ending the charade that I am here for any real closure. Before I can, a random memory strikes me – one from months ago, when Liraz first appeared in our lives.

"Surely the council does not approve of these personal assignments, especially since they seemed to have racked up quite the body count."

His eyes narrow and his shoulders tense. His face instantly colors a deep shade of red that I am not sure I have ever seen on him before now. Is he frightened of something, this secretive group of people? Perhaps the nameless group of men in control of Mossad really does exist, and perhaps that is exactly who my father is afraid of. I had not truly believed Liraz was telling the truth when she mentioned working for another anonymous agency but I did not give her enough credit. This makes me wonder just how much I know about Mossad, and just how little I now know about my father after all this time spent believing I knew him better than anyone.

"There is little doubt how you've discovered this," he says and I think of Liraz, but he surprises me. "I knew when I heard of DiNozzo killing Michael that he'd found something he should not have. How Michael was foolish enough to leave himself vulnerable I will never understand. But what did DiNozzo tell you, exactly? Did he recite Michael's e-mails word for word?"

"Was it worth all this?" I ask, truly curious but ignoring his questions. "Was it worth Michael's life, or mine, or Tony's? Any of could have been the one who died in that house at the hands of any of the others."

"This was not about your lives! Or Michael's! It was about _mine, goddamn you_!"

His outburst surprises me but I stay quiet.

"They wanted me out, did you know that?" he seethes. "They thought I didn't know, but of course I did. I know everything that happens within and without the walls of my agency. I knew that they were spying on me, using my own people against me. I had only two true confidants in all of this: Michael and Liraz. One of them is now dead, and I am almost certain that the damned Council is who alerted DiNozzo to focus on Michael in the first place. They are engineering Mossad – and even Israel – into ruin! But no, _I'm _the one with too much power! _I'm _the one who has lost touch!"

"Is that what Somalia was about?" I ask, "Power?"

"What was I left to do?" he asks, his eyes manic and his voice approaching the level of shouting. "They would have replaced me! They would certainly not have scoffed at killing me, even. It is only another means of dismissal in this life. Dealing with Saleem was the only way to ensure my life and the life of Mossad!" He begins to pace, breathing heavily. "It was a simple arrangement, even. Mossad will appear ignorant of his actions – as we were for a long, long time – if he carried out a seemingly random attack that would eliminate the Council. It was mutually beneficial. I stay in power, in command of my troops, and they carry on until one of Mossad's team could discreetly take care of them."

"You planned to double-cross the cell?" I say. "That was a bold move, to say the least."

"I did not want to lower myself by continuing any kind of contract with them. As far as I was concerned, their service was just a way to buy their lives for a few months longer," he says adamantly, "Not that it matters now. They have failed miserably – their attacks had very few casualties, and they were all civilians and not Council members. That was never my intention but they are incompetent. They have since been taken care of, believe me. Saleem and his men are long dead now."

"And what would you have done without them, the members of the Council?" I ask, imagining that the group was designed to govern Mossad and to prevent exactly this. "They must serve their purpose."

"At one time, yes," he admits. "They created Mossad to protect Israel against her enemies. They were pioneers, so to speak, into the world of foreign intelligence. Now they only hand down rules and tie our hands. They undermine my authority and make it almost impossible to save lives. They were going to take everything from me, Ziva. I could not let them."

I nod my head. "But what does that have to do with us? All of these plans could have been carried out and I never would have known."

He laughs cynically and stops pacing. "DiNozzo had nothing to do with anything other than the fact that he knew things about Mossad that he shouldn't. And even if I'm wrong about that and he didn't, he was getting far too close for comfort. When he killed Michael I thought that my plans had failed and that all was lost, but suddenly I knew that you would return and that I could depend on you to stand beside me. You would avenge Michael by killing the man who killed him, and I could protect you from the Americans. They would scorn you and you could not stay with them. You would stay with Mossad and live up to the potential I've always known you've had." He smiles but it has no warmth. "You deserve to be used to the extent of that potential, Ziva. They have softened you there, turned you into a house pet. I need you here, and I need the weapon you've spent your entire life becoming."

At those words I cannot help but laugh. "You cannot possibly think that I would help you with this – or that I would help you kill innocent people who happened to be of the opinion that you were not doing your job well. I am not your personal police force, nor do I have any intention of becoming that."

"What am I hearing?" he asks. "You will let them kill me?"

"Or I will do it myself," I answer. "You tried to kill me several times in the last few months and if that was not bad enough, you have put Tony's life and the lives of innocent strangers in danger trying to get to us. With you alive, we will never have the lives we deserve."

"I'm unarmed."

"I do not care."

"You will be executed."

"It is worth the risk."

"You stupid girl!" he shouts. "I wish it had been you instead of Tali, She would not do this to me."

I wince. It was a low blow but not out of character. "Perhaps. But I do have other options."

"Such as?"

"I could turn you over to them," I say. "You could hope for the best under their judgment. You could endure what it feels like to be called a traitor and a terrorist in front of your entire country, like we did."

"No," he whispers. "You would not do that to me."

"Oh, you will be paraded in front of cameras and have your face everywhere for your betrayal. Your motives will be examined and judged the world over. How does that sound? Personally I find it fitting."

"Ziva. You don't know what you are saying to me."

I laugh. "Believe me. I know every word."

Eyes ablaze and breathing loudly, he lunges at the bookshelf next to him and grasps an abused leather spine that instantly falls apart. While I watch the cover fall and the pages begin to scatter across the floor, my father pulls a small revolver from the binding and levels it at my face. Instinctually, mine rises to aim the barrel to the middle of his forehead. Neither of us makes a move past that.

"You cannot give me to them," he says and sounds like there are tears in his voice.

"You deserve to be treated like we were," I tell him. "You did this to us. We were hunted, mercilessly, and kept from our loved ones. We were afraid to show our faces anywhere in case you had someone following us. You could have _killed _the family who took us in and loved us to save your precious reputation!" Now I am breathing hard, thinking of the Nouvels in danger at his hands. My finger tightens on the trigger. "You sacrificed the integrity of Mossad and the dignity of our country to save your precious position. Why should you be set free after that, only to continue the process the next time your power is questioned?"

He pulls back the hammer on his antiquated weapon with an audible _click. _

"This is what you want?" I ask.

"No," he says. "This is what _you _want."

I hardly have time to blink before he shoves the barrel of the gun into his mouth and pulls the trigger.


	32. Effects

**Author's Note:**

**Ah, reviews. How they motivate me! This, you'll find, is a small filler chapter necessary to keep the story going. Still, I hope you like it. **

**Thanks again for all your feedback! **

**Chapter Thirty-One**

**Effects**

When we rush through the door, the only things I can see are the blood spatter spread across the papers on the floor and the frozen, horrifically sad look on Ziva's face. Eli David's body is on the floor, his limbs splayed awkwardly and his gun a few inches away from him. Ziva is leaning against his desk, her gun well out of reach, with her arms crossed across her chest. The ugly smell of dead body has already started to permeate the room and judging by the shine of tears in her eyes, it doesn't take long to realize that Ziva wasn't the one who ended her father's life.

Despite the juvenile and mildly anger-driven urge to kick the body, I opt instead for respect and step around it to grab Ziva into my arms. She goes semi-willingly, not fighting me but not running to me either. I'm not offended. She's just watched her father commit suicide. I can't imagine what would compel a man with more of an ego problem than me to take his own life, but I'm sure I'll know eventually. Liraz has hardly stepped a foot inside; she's looking at her boss rather than Ziva. The man's not a pretty sight. It's the sound of McGee sounding off in Ziva's earpiece that brings us all back to earth.

"Guys? Are you there? What happened?"

"It is over, McGee," Ziva says softly. "He is dead."

"Did you…"

"No," she interrupts. "He did it himself."

"Oh. I'm sorry for your loss," he replies stoically.

"Thank you."

"Did you find out what the hell happened or why he decided to flip out on us?" I ask, sorry that I have to interrogate her during all of this. She takes a deep breath but I cut her off. "Hey, let's move somewhere else. You need to sit down."

"Agreed," Liraz says quickly, indicating that she'd been thinking the same thing probably since we came into the room. She about faces and leads the way out.

We move back down to the sitting room, where Martin is conscious again and has been haphazardly stitched up. His face is beet red and he's glaring daggers at the two men keeping watch over him, who I'm guessing are the ones that did the medical work.

"Having fun?" I ask him as I lead Ziva to a chair. She goes without argument and that worries me more than if she'd threatened to break my fingers.

"Oh, it's been a sack-full of laughs," he growls and then sighs. "I'll live. Doesn't look I can say the same for dear old dad."

Ziva winces and I cut my eyes at him. Martin shrugs and shuts up.

"So," Liraz starts gently. "What happened?"

"You were right. That secret circle of men who control Israeli intelligence exists," she says and for a second I have no idea what she's talking about. Then I remember meeting Liraz and her proclaiming that an agency outside of Mossad sent her and expressed interest in helping them. I was with Ziva, then. I wasn't sure it sounded real.

"You doubted?"

"Always," she responds. "My father did not. When he began hearing whispers about removing him from his position, he fought back. He forged a makeshift alliance with Somalian terrorists to protect himself. They were supposed to kill this Council in a staged terror attack so that he would have sole control of Mossad."

"Is that what Michael was working on when he showed up?" I ask and she nods. It feels like a lifetime ago, but neither of us have forgotten what brought us here to begin with. I'm not sure if she's still hurting over it – we try not to bring it up.

"He was communicating with the terrorists on behalf of my father and then killing them to keep them from revealing my father's actions. When you killed him, my father assumed that you had discovered his plans through Michael and brought you to Israel to have you killed," she says and leaves out the detail that _she _was the one assigned to help me kick the bucket. "When that did not work and I helped you, he thought you had turned me against him and saw fit to be rid of both of us."

"Two birds with one rock," Liraz says, nodding. Close enough.

"The Somalians failed, though," Ziva continues, "And my father had them killed sooner than he had originally planned to eliminate any chances of discovery. With Michael dead, the terrorists dead, and Liraz as the ever-faithful assistant we were the only loose ends he had to take care of. He could not let us run around the world and spread the information he thought we possessed."

"Which we didn't have at all," I say and she nods.

"I decided that once I had learned all of this that a more fitting punishment would be a trial," she says. "I wanted him to know what it was like to be treated as a traitor and a terrorist. I suppose he decided death would be better than the public scrutiny or judgment."

"Not surprising," Liraz says.

"My thoughts exactly."

"I'm sorry, Zee," I say sincerely. "I know he was your dad and you loved him."

"I did, once upon time," she answers sadly. "But love can only forgive so much and I had stretched his as far as it could possible go."

We had nothing to say to that.

"I am so, so tired," she moans and we all sigh in agreement. "At least it is finally, _finally _over."

"So what's next?" McGee chimes in after quite a few minutes of silence.

"We come home," I say with some finality. "I was promised our lives back if we came to Israel and took care of Eli. We've done that. Now, by god, we get to come back and reap the benefits of our work."

"It may not be that simple," McGee says but now he sounds like he's moving a bit more toward panic. "I just lost my hack. The system kicked me out and raised the red flag over at Mossad. You're about to have company."

"Well, hell, McGee! What are you good for, exactly?" I ask but Liraz shakes her head. "Can't anything go right for us? EVER?"

"It was never going to be that simple," she says. "No matter how good our intentions, we broke several laws tonight. Men are dead. We have to stand up and be held accountable for that."

"To who?" Ziva asks, coming out of her head for a moment. "My father would have handled this but he is dead now. There is no acting deputy director assigned for these situations. We cannot be tried through the criminal court."

"No," she answers. "The Council will oversee our trials."

"These are the same people my father would rather die than confront?" she asks and my heart drops into my stomach and forms a painful knot. That doesn't sound promising. I'm liking this plan less and less by the moment.

Liraz nods. "The same, but you cannot be afraid of them. They are the ones that sent me to save you in the first place. You'll be treated fairly."

"But jail is jail," I say cynically. "Fair or not, we could still be looking at hard time."

"Doubtful, but possible," Liraz says grudgingly. "They have Mossad to appease, after all."

"Splendid," I say sarcastically. "How long do we have, McGee?"

"Maybe two minutes."

I hear gravel crunching outside and Ziva sighs. "I think we have less than that. McGee, make sure Gibbs and Vance make some calls and speak on our behalf. It could not hurt our case."

I pick up where she left off. "Martin, you just shut the hell up. Don't tell them who you are, how we know you, or where you're from. Nothing. Gibbs will step in for you, too."

"Copy that."

"Zee," I say, "Don't let them keep you. We're going home."

"I will do my best," she says and squeezes my hand for the briefest second. "And the 'shutting up' part goes for you, as well. Do not try and charm your way out of this. You are not nearly so endearing when you are translated."

I laugh. "Okay. I'll do my best."

The door breaks open and then the room is full of black cargo pants with big guns. I'm forced to the floor fairly quickly and from where my face has been smashed into the carpet, I watch Martin wrangled into submission by people unaware (or uncaring) of his bullet wound. Liraz is left untouched by men who assume her authority, and she orders them around in Hebrew before two of them go sprinting up the stairs. They'll discover David's body in seconds.

Lo and behold, one of them starts yelling and then Ziva is thrown to the floor next to me. Her head bounces off the floor and her arms are wrestled behind her back. Her, they recognize. They'll figure me out in the next few minutes because we're in such close proximity. More shouting occurs and then someone thinks to translate for the dumb American in their presence.

"Ziva David, you are being taken into custody for the murder of Eli David," I hear someone bark and then all I can see are the tears running down Ziva's face and her shaky breathing. I'd reach out if my arms weren't zip-tied painfully behind me. Seconds later, we're yanked up and led out the door.

No one talks after that.


	33. Sentences

**Author's Note:**

**I just keep writing! I don't know what's switched on in my brain lately, but I dig it. **

**Enjoy the chapter, and enjoy your weekend! (You can complain about the cliffhanger in the reviews...) :D **

**Chapter Thirty-Two**

**Sentences**

I spend thirty-six hours in a cold, damp cell before anyone talks to me. Even then, it was only to tell me that it was Friday. TGIF, baby. I haven't heard from or seen Ziva, Martin, or Liraz in just as long. Everything was confiscated from me upon my arrival – clothes, earpieces, jewelry. Any chance of further conversation with McGee or NCIS has been obliterated. More than anything, I want to know what's happened to my friends. I want to know what's going to happen to me.

I've had absolutely no human contact in almost 60 hours when a face finally appears through the tiny window in my iron cell door. I'm so surprised to see anyone that it takes me a second to realize that I'm being spoken to. It takes a full thirty seconds to realize that I'm being spoken to in Hebrew and that I can't understand a thing the guy is saying. Eventually, though, he opens the door and yanks me off my bunk to replace the zip-tie restraints on my wrists.

I'm marched out of the holding cell area and no one seems to be responding to my questions at all. They probably don't care. I come through a long hallway and they stop suddenly at a doorway, apparently waiting for further orders. They don't seem to have any bad feelings toward me – they just look like they're fulfilling an assignment. I can deal with that; I don't want them to feel like they have to rough me up. The building looks fairly official – long hallways and a lot of portraits on the walls of old Israeli men whose names I can just make out on the gold plating. I'm waiting just outside giant oak doors that lead god-knows-where and I'm not entirely sure I want to know.

Just when I'm considering my chances at escape, I hear a sound come from behind us and I turn to see another giant door being opened a few feet away. After all the solitude and doubt of the last few days, watching Martin being led out of another door almost has me in very manly tears. They lead him forward, unrestrained because of the arm he has in a sling, until we're standing side by side. If I didn't have a reputation to maintain, I really would have cried tears of relief.

"You alive?" he asks and I nod.

"I think you can call it that," I answer flippantly, "What about you? How's your arm?"

"They fixed me up properly once we got back here," he says. "I was in the infirmary for the first night and then they took me to an actual cell. Homey."

"Mine too," I reply. "Do you have any idea where we're headed?"

"Probably some kind of impromptu trial," he says. "Not sure how the Israeli criminal justice system handles its business."

"Do we have lawyers?"

"Don't rightly know if we get one, mate," he says.

"Me either," I sigh. "More importantly, have you seen or heard from Ziva?"

"Not a word," he says, "Not from Ziva herself, anyway. I don't know about you, but my guards were quite chatty and I got the scoop on a lot of things."

"Not even close to chatty. I didn't hear a word."

"I didn't at first, but they started talking after they buried David," he says. "They sprung Ziva from wherever they're stashing her for the event. They thought that was a mite odd, since she was originally arrested for his murder."

"Do they know it was a suicide?"

"I think so," he says. "But it doesn't mean they're taking it very easy on her."

"What do you m-" I start but I'm interrupted when the doors open and we're shoved forward into what has to be the largest conference room I've ever seen in my life. It was a shame that the grand majority of it was filled with nothing more than empty space.

In the massive room, only two long tables with three chairs each were visible and they were on complete opposite sides of the room. A giant Israeli flag hung on the wall opposite and despite its size, the complete lack of windows made the room seem darker than it was. It was empty, save for us and the guards who brought us in. Soon enough, though, we're forced into our seats and the guards disappear. Before we have time to actually get nervous – or start imagining the sight of a firing squad – a door on the opposite side of the room opens and people begin filing out of it.

First in line is probably the tallest man in the country. He stands at six-foot-seven, easily, but moves with the utmost confidence. He has dark hair and a very stern face that probably hasn't seen a smile his entire life. Not a good sign. Second in line is an older man with a plain face with plenty of laugh lines. He wears a crisp white suit with a jaunty yellow rose in the breast pocket. I think this could possibly be a good sign, since it looks like this guy has the sunniest disposition in the room. Thirdly is the oldest, a woman dressed in dark clothing with shiny horn-rimmed glasses. She looks like the intimidating librarian type but I don't think she'll sentence us to a good shushing. I would almost prefer that, sadly.

"Please stand," the tall guy says in an expectedly low voice and we get to our feet. "Your names are Anthony DiNozzo and Aston Martin, is this correct?"

My jaw drops and I look at the man next to me.

"That's your name? Your name, all this time, was Aston-freaking-Martin and you couldn't have told me that? The best character in James Bond movies! Well, you know, other than the chicks… but still! That's the coolest name ever given to a child and you just let me call you 'Martin' like an idiot!"

He grimaces. "I was born the day that bloody movie premiered and I got saddled with a ridiculous theme name. You try living with it."

"I will, thank you."

"Are you finished?" the man says and I realize with a start that I interrupted the decision that would alter the rest of our lives with an argument about a car name. My current partner in crime is glaring menacingly at me.

"I'm sorry. Yes. Those are our names," I say calmly and I feel like kicking myself. Ziva would have killed me for that. "Aston-freaking-Martin…"

"You are before us now to be held accountable for the last six months of your lives. In that time, you have been accused of several crimes against our nation against the Israeli citizens. This includes murder, conspiracy to commit murder, and unsanctioned espionage."

"Oh, hell," Martin whispers and suddenly home is seeming like the farthest thing in the world from this room.

"These are serious, serious offenses. Even still, you did this in service of a greater good. You were protecting yourselves and the lives of the innocent from harm. You, along with the help of Officer Ziva David, were attempting to preserve the integrity of Mossad," he says and I start holding my breath without realizing it. "And it is this we hold in mind as we make our decision."

"Oh hell, oh hell, oh hell…" Martin chants under his breath and I'm not far from joining him.

"You are hereafter banished from the country of Israel for the rest of your lives," he says solemnly and I think to myself that he didn't have to order that. I never want to come back here again anyway. He continues, though, with the truly surprising part.

"This solitary condition will be in exchange for a full pardon and a recommendation from our agency that you return to your positions in your respective countries without any objection from us."

The room is completely silent for a good five seconds before I lean over to Martin and say, "Do those words mean the same thing to you as they do to me?"

"As far as I know."

"Do you mean we're free to go?" I ask, still shocked, and the man nods. "We can go home?"

"You are free to leave this facility and you have 72 hours to arrange travel for yourselves back to your homes," he says and I want to run up and hug them. "Leave with our respect and good luck to you both."

The guards come in again and while I came in bound and terrified, I leave it as a free and incredibly happy man. I hug Martin, hug my guards, and practically skip out of the room. I was so happy I didn't see Ziva until I was almost running her down. Her nose hits my chest with an unpleasant thud and she stumbles back, leaving me to catch her before she hits the floor. She curses in Hebrew and then looks up to see that I'm her attacker. Her eyes widen and she throws herself against me again so I can wrap my arms around her shoulders, unable to hold her cuffed hands. She looks healthy but tired and not exactly happy.

"You are here," she says breathlessly. "What happened? What did they tell you?"

"We're free," I say laughing. "They're giving us a full pardon if we promise never to come to Israel again."

"Both of you?" she asks anxiously.

"Both of us," Martin chimes in, grinning. "I can live with that, I imagine."

"I am sure you can manage," she says and laughs. "I cannot believe they were so lenient. Perhaps there is hope after all."

"Ah, you'll be fine. Undoubtedly they like you better than they liked us," I say, beaming at her. "We got in trouble for talking during the lecture. We'll be home in no time!"

"You did what?"

"Not my fault. Did you know that Martin's real name is _Aston _Martin?" I ask and she stares blankly at me. "The car. _The _car, I should say. James Bond's car. And he's been making us call him 'Martin', the most boring name in the world."

"You are named for a car?" she asks Martin and he nods sadly.

"I'd give the world to change it," he replies and I shake my head.

"You're ridiculous."

Ziva's guards say something in her language and she nods her head. "I have to move now. It is my turn in front of the clopping block."

"Chopping," I correct. "You'll be fine. We were."

"Let us hope."

"Hey, come here," I say, pulling her close and kissing her forehead. "Don't take too long in there. You and I have places to be."

She smiles and nods. "Yes, Tony."

Martin and I watch as she walks forward, head held high, and the doors are closed behind her. The guards don't come back out like they did with us. I guess Ziva poses more of a threat than we do. A few minutes pass with us waiting outside, straining to hear but nothing makes it out of those giant wooden doors. Eventually Martin leans over and whispers something in my ear.

"The guys in charge of me said they would be harder on Ziva than on us."

"What?" I ask. "What does that mean?"

"We're dim-witted foreigners who didn't know any better," he replies. "Ziva knew exactly what she was doing and did it anyway. She conspired against her own country. You'll notice that 'treason' wasn't on the list of our transgressions and that's a pretty big deal around these parts. I can't say anything for sure, but their mercy may have been wasted on us."

"Well, shit," I say and my heart rate kicks up a few notches. My chest starts hurting. It's not fair to make me go from elated to terrified in a matter of seconds. "They made a big deal about the greater good with us! We were protecting integrity and all that. Won't Ziva get some of that?"

"We can hope."

"Well, shit," I say again and after that I just count the seconds until those stupid wooden doors open again.

* * *

The individuals who have my life in their hands are already seated and waiting when I am lead into the room. Because of the handcuffs around my wrists, my guards are kind enough to pull out my chair for me and to push it in again when I sit down. I cannot help but be surprised by the small act of kindness, considering that they consider me as the villain in this scenario. I stare at the people across the room from me and they stare back. I have no idea how to be prepared or to act in this kind of situation, so I stay quiet. I will speak when spoken to.

"You are Mossad Officer Ziva Ariel David," the man in the center of the table finally says and I nod my head.

"Yes, I am."

"You were born November 12, 1982."

"Yes, sir."

"You joined the Israel Defense Force at age 18," he reads from a file open on the table in front of him, reciting my life mechanically and without any obvious feelings on the information. "You volunteered for Mossad service at twenty. You served in Kidon before acting as a liaison officer to NCIS, am I correct?"

"Yes."

"Your family is deceased. All of them, now, with the suicide of your father."

"Yes."

"Tell me, Officer David, why would such an obviously dedicated individual see fit to plan against the country she has pledged herself to?"

My chest constricts. This is not a good sign. "Because my father was not my country. Not anymore. _He_ worked against you, not me."

"You are blaming him for your transgressions?"

"No," I respond honestly but I can feel my temper begin to rise and my face begins to heat up. "I am only saying that targeting my father was not targeting Israel. They are separate entities. He was the one who decided to act opposite to this country's interests. Unless, of course, you desired an allegiance with Somali terrorists who were hired to assassinate you."

_Calm down, _I tell myself. _Anger will only hurt you here. _

"And do you have proof of this?"

"No," I say frankly. "But I believe the best evidence of my father's treason has already been deposed. Did you or did you not send Liraz Reut to our aid?"

"Officer Reut is not a part of this hearing, nor are our actions before the matter at hand," he replies. "The list of your crimes is as follows: murder, accessory to murder, conspiracy to commit murder, smuggling, interfering in a federal investigation, harboring a fugitive from punishment, attempting to escape custody, and treason. Do you deny these charges?"

"No," I say, holding my head up. I will keep my dignity. "None of them."

"Do you have any words to the Council, in defense or otherwise, before we continue?"

"No."

The man sits back down and the three converse among themselves for a few long, agonizing minutes. In my own head, my thoughts are decidedly unpleasant. The punishment for any one of my crimes is severe – for all of them combined, I may very well be spending the rest of my life in prison. As for the treason charge, it is possible that I may be facing the death penalty. No one in the country would stand up for me and prevent it, and I could not bring myself to blame them.

"Officer Ziva David," the woman begins suddenly, startling me out of my thoughts. "We are prepared to make an offer. Will you hear it?"

I nod my head.

"We would like you to remain in Israel," she continues, "Under the condition that you remain as the Deputy Director of Mossad."


	34. Assumptions

**Author's Note:**

**Thank you so, so much for all your generous feedback. I live off the stuff, let me tell you. Thank you for those of you who have been with me for years and thank you for the ones just discovering this story (one reviewer in particular reviewed from beginning to end over the weekend, which I truly loved because it meant experiencing the story all over again). **

**Sigh… in summation, I'm grateful for each one of you and I hope you enjoy this newest chapter. We're wrapping up, folks. Not long now! **

**Chapter Thirty-Three**

**Assumptions**

"I can't hear a damn thing!" I yell, resisting the temptation to start banging on the door and demanding to be let in.

"That's the point of the doors, I'm guessing."

"You're not helping," I say and start pacing.

He shrugs. "What would you do in there, anyway? I doubt anything would be convincing enough to change their minds. Not with these official types."

"I don't know… ask to trade places, I guess," I reply. "I'll stay in prison here, if they let Ziva go home."

"I doubt they'll go for that, mate."

"I have to try, don't I?"

"I don't think all your trying will be necessary," a familiar voice says behind and we both turn to Liraz walking up the hallway to us. She's not in handcuffs of anything like that, and I don't know if I should be grateful or annoyed that she seems to have been given preferential treatment.

"What does that mean?"

"It means that you have completely misinterpreted the Council's intentions," she says matter-of-factly and I scowl.

"Again, what does that _mean_?"

"It means that they have no desire to put her in prison, Tony," she says, crossing her arms over her chest. "They want Ziva to stay in Tel Aviv and become the new deputy director. It's an honor, not a punishment."

My heart stutters a moment, followed quickly by relief, and then the only thing I can feel is shock and awe. "What?"

"What part aren't you getting?" Martin asks sarcastically. It means she's going to be fine. They're not going to jail or execute her. You should be pretty happy about that if you ask me."

"I'm thrilled," I say distractedly. And it's the truth, I am happy that she's not going to be a prisoner for the rest of her life. I'm not as happy that this may mean I'll be telling her goodbye again, this time maybe for good. I turn to Liraz. "Do you think she'll accept?"

"Do you think she won't?"

"I suppose that's answer enough for me," I say exhale loudly, just in time for the giant doors to fly open and almost crush me. Jumping quickly out of the way, I don't see Ziva coming out of the room without her handcuffs and with a very confident look on her face. When I do look up, her eyes are focused dead ahead and I'm not sure she sees me until I clear my throat.

"Well?" I ask.

"I want to go now," she says, "I want some real food and a bed."

I turn to Martin and Liraz and shrug my shoulders. "You heard the lady. Where's the nearest falafel stand and/or hotel?"

* * *

Tony is anxious the rest of the day but I am not sure why and he seems unwilling to discuss it with me. I understand that, because I still have not told him about the Council's offer. I will when the time is right, although I am certain it is the curiosity that has him so pensive even now, when we should be dead tired and falling into bed. Instead, I am in the bathroom giving my hair a good brushing. The tangles were gone several minutes ago, but the repetitive action was so soothing that I kept it up. I am almost dozing off while still standing when suddenly Tony is behind me, taking the brush from my hands and running it over my head, across my scalp and through my hair from root to end. I shiver and close my eyes.

"Mmm," I moan softly and he chuckles.

"Feel good?"

"That is a grave understatement," I reply as any remaining tension begins to fall away. "You are too good to me."

"I'm not nearly good enough to you," he says but he says it with a smile on his face. It does not go unnoticed by either of us that this is the first moment of peace that either of us has experienced in almost a month. The hotel room is quiet, neither of us are afraid for our lives, and there is no reason to dread tomorrow. Happiness, the long-term kind, seems imminent. Our lives in Paris are thousands of miles away, but Paris is what is weighing on me more than anything now.

"Are you sure the call went through?" I ask for the sixth time that night.

"The call went through, Zee," he replies gently. "Henri's answering machine picked up and the little beep told us it was safe to record. He'll be listening to it any day now if he hasn't gotten back from their hiding spot already, in which case he may have already gotten it."

"Do you think they are safe?"

"Yeah, I do," he says, keeping up the steady motion of running the brush through my hair. "They're going to be safe for a long time now, thanks to you. We won't have to worry about them, and they won't have to worry about us. I'm sure Martin has already gotten a hold of them to let them know he's coming home."

"I will miss them," I say somewhat sadly, taking a deep breath. "They were so, so good to us, Tony. They were more than I think either of us deserved."

"Agreed," he says simply and we are quiet for a few moments, with just the sound of the brush between us. His hands are gentle as they glide through my hair and his breathing is even. I feel his warmth only a few inches away, his body so close to mine, and tears begin to prick my eyes. I do not cry, really, but now I feel as though I might. I sniffle and Tony hears it, pausing in his duties to look at me in the mirror and wrap his arms around my shoulders.

"We made it, Zee," he whispers against my ear. "We're here, and we're safe. Martin is safe; Henri and the kids are safe. Neither of us is in prison. I'm sorry about your dad, but I can't stop being happy that all of this is over."

"Nor can I," I respond. "Someone must have said a very, very good prayer."

"And no matter what happens in a few days, we're going to make everything work," he continues. "Oceans aren't such a big deal. We've handled them before so we can do it again."

"Wait. What?"

"I know DC and Tel Aviv are worlds away, but that doesn't mean we can't do it," he says earnestly and squeezes me a little tighter. "I'm sure as hell not giving up. Yeah, long distance relationships are hard, but I'm not worried about it. Are you?"

"Right now I am only worried about your sanity," I say, surprised. "What in the world are you talking about?"

"I know about the offer, Zee," he says and understanding suddenly dawns on me. "You don't have to tell me why or defend yourself. Israel is your country and it's an honor to serve her. I'm proud they had the good sense to see what an amazing leader you are."

"Tony, I have bad news," I say and he nods.

"It's okay, I already know."

"No, apparently you do not," I say and he turns me around to face him. "I did not take the job. Why would I?"

"Because this is your country and your agency and it's an honor to be considered for the position," he replies earnestly. "This is your chance to do some great, great things."

"Do I not do great things anyway?"

"Of course you do. I meant great things on a bigger scale."

"Perhaps," I admit. "But I do not want great things on a bigger scale. I want to be home, with you, in DC with the rest of the team."

He stares. "Can you do that? Are you allowed to tell them no?"

"We will find out, because I already did," I say frankly. "I recommended someone else in exchange and they agreed to honor my decision. So I hope you were not hoping to lose me to Mossad, because it will not be happening any time soon."

"You're coming home with me?" he asks, smile slowly spreading across his face. "For real?"

"For good," I say, nodding. "I have chosen to dissolve all my ties with Mossad. I will be a liaison officer no longer. I will be returning to America and beginning the naturalization process so that I may become a full-fledged NCIS agent."

"Haha!" he laughs. "I'm going to love watching that."

"Hey. I am a very good student."

"No arguments there, sweet cheeks," he says and my breath catches at the nickname I haven't heard in months. It is another sign that things are finally returning to normal after so many months of chaos. "Do you know what this means?"

"I am unemployed?"

He laughs again and pulls me forward, finding my lips and kissing me as though there is no tomorrow. I am a little dizzy when he pulls away, practically vibrating with glee. His smile, honest but not always innocent, is one of his most alluring qualities.

"This means that we're celebrating. Where's the room service menu? We're going to drink champagne and then I'm going to rock your world."

"I am not certain this room has room service," I say, laughing.

"Well, then," he says, his voice growing decadently low and his eyebrows tilting suggestively, "I guess that only leaves one thing, doesn't it?"

I swallow the growing lump in my throat and blood begins to roar in my ears. My hands clench reflexively and my mouth is suddenly dry. Excitement in its purest, most carnal form does not take long around Anthony DiNozzo.

"I suppose so."

He wraps his large hands around my thighs and lifts me up effortlessly, allowing me to straddle him for a few threadbare seconds before he places me on top of the bathroom counter and pushes me back against the mirror. His hands find my waist and he lifts my shirt up and off, throwing it across the small room. My fingers are mimicking his, pushing his shirt up so that I can run my fingernails across his chest and abdomen. He shudders, his breath stuttering across his lips and onto mine, and I rip the piece of cloth over his head.

The body in front of me is so familiar now that I can map it in my sleep without trying. I know the light scar on his shoulder and the way he moans when I softly scratch the skin covering his ribs. He knows my body just as well and it shows when he nips at the skin behind my ear and runs his fingers roughly through my hair despite his tenderness with the locks just a few minutes earlier. When we kiss, my lungs scream for air and my nerves hum with energy. My fingers travel across his chest and arms in appreciation, thinking that it had been far too long.

"I was thinking," he interrupts breathlessly, hips bucking into me when I begin to toy with his belt, "I know an – ah, _god – _alternative to the naturalization thing."

"Oh?" I ask innocently. "What is that?"

"Green card wedding," he suggests, grinning impishly, his face flushed with arousal. "You become Mrs. DiNozzo and you don't have to study a thing."

I laugh. "And be your mail-order bride?"

"Something like that."

"How exciting for me," I say and kiss the corner of his mouth. "How about instead you finish 'rocking my world', as you so eloquently phrased it?"

He grins. "You had to ask?"


	35. Departures

**Author's Note:**

**Sorry for the delay, all. Finals almost killed me this semester. **

**There's only one more chapter after this one, if you can believe it. I barely can myself, honestly. **

**Chapter Thirty-Four**

**Departures **

Morning comes quickly, at least for us. It is still dark when the alarm goes off, jolting me awake with a scream building deep in my chest. I had been dreaming of my father again, trying to convince him to remove the gun from his mouth. A week ago, he had refused. In my dream, however, he does put the gun down but only long enough for me to raise my own and fire. The bullet catches him in the throat and I watch as he begins to aspirate on his own blood, cold and unaffected by the sight before me. My laughter ends the dream. I usually wake up with the sound of gunshots ringing in my ears and hot tears on my cheeks. This morning is no different, but this time I do not have the opportunity to relax and fall back asleep like I normally do. Our flight is leaving in two hours.

So, instead of talking myself down and curling up against Tony to make the nightmare fade from my mind, I shake Tony's shoulder gently to wake him. When shaking does not work I resort to flicking his nose and that finally forces his eyes to slowly open. He clears his throat a little and looks around, trying to orient himself.

Finally, he realizes where he is and a smile slowly spreads across his face and he whispers, "We're going home."

"We are if we leave soon enough," I say lovingly, kissing his temple before throwing the blankets off my legs and tip-toeing toward the bathroom. "You start packing while I shower and then we will trade, yes?"

"Yup," he groans as he sits up and stretches his arms. "Food? Coffee?"

"We will get some on the way out, if that is alright. I would prefer to get everything packed before we get distracted."

"Perfect," he replies and I close the bathroom door behind me. Through the thin wood I hear him joyously cry, "We're going home!"

* * *

The sun is only barely coming over the horizon when we arrive at one of Tel Aviv's private airfields, tipping the cab driver with what remains of our Israeli currency because we know that we will never need it again. Israel, my home for so long, will become a memory, a double-edged sword signifying both the miracle of a beginning and the tragedy of so many endings. Tony and I began our lives together here, choosing each other's survival over our own and knowing we would do the same a thousand times over. But my father's life ended here, as has my time as a Mossad operative. Tony lost some of his innate naiveté here, and too soon discovered how ugly and treacherous our work could be. Nothing, he learned, was quite as black-and-white as he had always chosen to believe. It had only confirmed what I had known for years – that trust is misleading and could too easily be taken for granted. In the end, we approached the runway knowing that we were leaving this land as different people and that we were given a chance to continue the lives that perhaps we were meant to lead all along.

"I love you," Tony says suddenly, as though reading my mind. I can only smile at him, admiring the reflection of the sunrise in his green eyes, and squeeze his hand.

"I love you, too."

There is only one plane in sight, and it is heavily guarded. Tony tenses, already perceiving a threat where there is none. Mossad muscle stands guard at the gate and let us through, scowling and obviously displeased with their assignment. It is possible they consider me a traitor, my partner a cold-blooded murderer. Tony does not let go of my hand, only reluctantly doing so when he has to take off the backpack hanging from his shoulders. Other Mossad officers take our modest bags, carrying them to the small plane and disappearing through the doorway. There is no sign of the pilot – he is undoubtedly in the cockpit already, preparing for takeoff. Our flight leaves in an hour, giving us more than enough time to sit in our seats and contemplate what returning home will feel like after such a long time away. It had only been months, but had felt like years. We had formed a family of our own in Paris and had been forced to leave them behind, just as we had been forced to leave NCIS behind when our lives were threatened by my father's tyranny. Now, going back to DC after accepting that it may never happen, feels odd. Re-acclimation will feel anything but natural, I fear.

We are led to our seats by an officer who could be no older than nineteen, and I thank him with a cautious smile on my face. The seats are a plush white leather, and sitting in them causes us to sink back into the fabric and sigh. Tony puts his feet on the elegant glass table in front of our chairs and raises the armrest between us, wrapping his arm around my shoulders.

"Not bad digs for a bunch of convicted criminals," he says lightly, holding me a little tighter. "I'm not sure if I should be grateful or suspicious."

"You are beginning to sound like me."

"I'll take that as a compliment," he replies smugly and leans back further into the chair. Silence prevails for a few minutes before he takes a deep breath and says, "Is it wrong that this feels weird? I mean, going home and all?"

I shake my head. "No, definitely not. I keep expecting to wake up in our hotel room, or still in prison. Truthfully, I never expected this to happen. I was content to live in Paris forever, until this life felt like a dream I woke up from a long time ago."

"You made a good librarian," he teases and I admonish him.

"I worked in a bookstore, not a library. There is a discernible difference." He shrugs and I elbow him a little. "Besides, I never expected you to become such an avid tutor. I would even go so far as to say you have come to like children."

"Hey, I always liked kids," he says, "They just didn't like me. It was fun, though. Jolie is a cool kid and she taught me just as much as I taught her. I'm actually pretty proud of how good my French is now."

"If you keep learning languages you will surpass me in no time," I say and he scoffs lightheartedly.

"Yeah, right. That's never going to happen. You speak eight languages fluently, that I know of. I speak one fluently, and even that one's iffy at times. The others are touch-and-go," he jokes and I laugh. I am about to assure him that his grasp of English has greatly improved but a guard appears next to us, addressing me in obviously irritated Hebrew.

"We have visitors," I say tentatively to Tony, who looks to me for translation. "I am not sure who it would be."

"Gibbs?"

"No, Gibbs would not fly to Israel if he knows that we are leaving today for Washington DC."

"Does he know we're coming back?"

"I thought so," I say absently. "The Council had promised to make the arrangements for our return themselves, which I assumed included contacting NCIS."

"Then I don't have a clue."

"Let us find out, then," I say, prying myself from the seat and allowing the guard to lead the way.

The guard leads us out and down the steps of the plane, his carefully measured steps bringing us out into the increasingly bright sunlight. While no people are immediately apparent, we do notice the addition of a second plane to the tarmac a few hundred feet away. I ask our guard who has asked to see us but before he can ignore me for more than a few seconds, he snaps to attention and salutes. We turn our heads to see Liraz leading Martin around the side of our plane, a neutral expression on her face to combat Martin's annoyed scowl. Tony exclaims happily, rushing to give Martin a hug that squeezes the man's injured arm in between them. Martin curses and shoves him off, fighting the grin threatening to take over his face.

"What a surprise," I say to Liraz. "I did not expect to see you here. We are bad influences, after all."

"Without question," she says and nodded at Martin. "He wanted to see you before he left."

"Where are you headed, Aston?" Tony asks him. "Paris or back to the land of tea and crumpets?"

Martin shakes his head at him and answers, "Paris, of course. Family is family."

"And you are leaving today as well?" I ask and he nods his head.

"About an hour after you," he replies. "Thank God. I can't wait to be out of this god-forsaken place."

"Careful," Liraz warns. "We just might decide to keep you here forever."

"Like hell you will."

"You never know," she says but turns to Tony. "Agent DiNozzo, why don't you help Mr. Martin with his luggage? He is still woefully incapacitated."

"I'll show you incapacitated…" he mutters and Tony grins.

"I'd almost forgotten I was an agent," he says excitedly and shakes his head. "Come on, Aston. Let's get you squared away."

"Will you stop calling me that?"

"Why do you provoke him that way?" I ask Liraz as they fade out of earshot.

"Martin? He is far too easy to provoke. I cannot resist."

"Understandable," I say, laughing, and cross my arms across my chest. "Are you coming with us to America? I am sure the team would love to meet with you."

"Oh, no," she says, shaking her head. "I have far too much to do here. My duties have multiplied tenfold in a matter of days. The work never seems to end."

"I can imagine."

"No, I came here to see you off and to make sure that Martin was not able to run wild," she says and stares at the plane in front of her. "Oh, I almost forgot – I think you would end up missing these."

She sticks her hand into her jacket pocket and pulls out something small that I cannot make out. I lift my hand and she drops the object into my palm, and I realize that it is not one object but many. I instantly recognize mine and Tony's wedding rings, from our staged marriage in France. I laugh happily when I see them, the yellow gold glinting in the sun.

"How did you get them?" I ask excitedly, staring at the once-familiar jewelry.

"I confiscated them from your jailers. For evidence, of course," she says with a wink. "I trust you know what to do with them, yes?"

I smile. "I am sure I can think of something."

For the time being, I slip them into my pocket just in time to see Tony and Martin come around from behind the plane, Martin still scowling and Tony still grinning like a fool.

"Hey," he says on approach, "One of the security guys says that take-off is in a few minutes. All aboard."

"I suppose that is our cue," I say positively and turn to face Martin. "It has been an honor working with you, and I can never thank you enough for your help."

"Likewise, Ms. David," he says solemnly and offers his good hand for me to shake. "Tell Gibbs we're even, if you don't mind."

"Of course."

"Come here, you!" Tony says and hugs Martin again. The man resists much less this time than last time. "Stay awesome. And call us and let us know that you've gotten home and the kids and Henri are okay. Write a letter, even. We'll catch up."

"Right," he says but smiles. "I'll keep you in the loop."

"Excellent," Tony says and Liraz holds out her hand to him, which he promptly ignores and pulls her into a hug instead. "Thanks for saving us, Liraz. We wouldn't have made it without you."

"Is that even a question?" she says jokingly and awkwardly pats his back. "I'm happy to have been able to come to the aid of a friend. Remember to speak well of me when you're back in Washington."

"No worries there," he says and releases her. "I'll tell anyone who listens how great you are."

"That is a comfort," she laughs and then levels her steady gaze at me. "Well, Ziva? Are you going to tell me goodbye?"

"I suppose I must," I reply and I give her a brief hug. "Thank you, Liraz. For everything. I could not have asked for a better friend in a time of need."

"You've got that right."

"Be well," I instruct her seriously. "Come find me if you are ever in the States."

"I will," she promises and then looks to the approaching guards. "I believe it is time for you to board. Good luck in America."

"Thanks," Tony answers for us before turning to me. "Well, sweetcheeks? Let's get this show on the road."

* * *

The plane takes off smoothly and it does not take long for us to fall asleep. The last few days have taken their toll; it feels like I should have gray hair and wrinkles by now. I wake before Tony, blinking against the mid-afternoon sun escaping through the windows and surprised at the amount of heat that has managed to build up in the cabin. It is quite warm. Trying not to wake him, I sneak out from under Tony's arm and tiptoe past his legs to search for the restroom. The guard assigned to the flight, the very young one, is asleep in the front of the plane. He had an early start as well, and I cannot begrudge him his nap.

I wash my face thoroughly once I enter the bathroom, scrubbing the sleep from my eyes and waking myself up with the cold water. My face instantly looks younger, and less like the exhausted and nearly-skeletal woman I saw in the mirror this morning after my shower. Leaning against the small sink, I feel something dig into my thigh and I remember what Liraz gave me a few hours before. Pulling the rings out of my pocket, I admire the shine and the weight of them against my skin. I slip my rings on automatically, covering the tan lines they had created and marveling at the fact that my hand felt far more normal with them on. As soon as that knowledge had wedged itself into my mind, I rushed out of the bathroom and back to my seat.

Tony is still sleeping when I sit on the table directly in front of him, watching the rise and fall of his chest and the thin lines at the corner of his eyes. Feeling unquestionable warmth surge up in me, I shake his leg until he wakes up and regards me with a confused look.

"What? Did we land already?"

"Do you love me?" I ask, ignoring his question.

"Of course I do," he says without hesitation. "Is that what you woke me up to ask?"

"Will you love me in DC, the way you loved me in Paris? The way you loved me in Israel?"

"I'll love you like that no matter where we are, Zee," he replies, now awake and sitting on the very edge of his chair. "Where we are doesn't matter, not really."

I nod my head. "Good."

"Good?"

"Yes, good," I say feel the heavy warmth of his ring in my hand. "Because I love you too, no matter where we are and no matter what will happen when we land. I love that you make me furious and make me laugh so quickly afterward that I am incapable of staying angry at you. I love your movie references, and the way your hair sticks up in the morning. I love your cologne and the way it lingers on my skin long after we have made love."

I grasp his hand and pull him forward, causing him to kneel in front of me. I pull him close to me, cupping his face in my hands. If he objects at all, it does not show. His eyes are trained intensely on me, listening to my every word.

"I love how amazing you are at your job, and how much you love everyone on the team. You tease McGee, you hug Abby, you listen to Ducky, and you worship Gibbs – only a real man knows how to do those things exactly when they are needed. I love that you are always going to do what is right, no matter what anyone else tells you. I love the way you give of yourself over and over again, only to smile and do it all again as soon as you are asked. I love the way your hands find me in your sleep, like I am the only one you think of even in your dreams. I love each and everything you are and ever will be."

I take a deep breath and hold his ring in my fingers.

"I want you to marry me, Tony," I say and he blinks. "I want to be with you for the rest of our lives, only as Tony and Ziva rather than John and Maria. I want a real wedding, and a real marriage. Please, please marry me so I can love you like you have loved me all of this time."

He smiles and stares at me expectantly, worrying me unnecessarily.

"Well?" I cry helplessly, "Say something!"

He holds his hand up and grins. "Aren't you going to put the ring on? It's no fun to do it myself."

I laugh, relieved and almost giddy as I slide the gold band over his finger. It finds its place perfectly, resting exactly where it has for almost six months now. It was meant to be there, just like I was the one meant to put it on. Tony's hands pull my face toward his so that he can kiss me, rendering me breathless and reminding me that we will have these moments and more for years and years to come. His grasp is comfortable and unhurried, speaking of all the times he has held me in exactly this way. When he pulls away, the smile on my face is mirrored on his.

"You know what this means, right?" he asks and I shake my head.

"No. What does it mean?"

"I need to find a dress."

I laugh and he kisses me again, warming the cabin even more.


	36. Homecomings

**Author's Note (Long One):**

**Dearest Readers,**

**I would like to take a few minutes of this chapter to let you know just how much I've appreciated your attention over the last few years… I wrote my very first fanfic six years ago, and so much has happened since then. I got my bachelor's, I started grad school. I met my best friends and my fiancé. In the same vein, I've had amazing readers and reviewers since I started writing. You've all made the work and the stress of writer's block worth it, and I can only hope that you've appreciated my work as much as I've appreciated your reading it. This story has taken three years to complete, and I never would have gotten past the first chapter if hadn't been for all of you. **

**Sadly, this will be my last fanfic. I've reached a point in my life where I no longer have time to write and while I may try again in a few years, I think it will be my own original work. Tony and Ziva have given me the confidence to create my own characters and I thank them for that. I'm so happy that this portrayal of their characters held your interest after three years of not-so-regular updates. I hope that it's been as memorable for you as it has been for me. One day, you may see my name on the fiction shelves… you never know. **

**So, in conclusion, thank you. Thank you for everything. **

**Alyssa de la Garza **

**(Alyssa Gallegos, when I get married in May)**

* * *

**Part IV: Washington D.C.**

**Chapter Thirty-Five**

**Homecomings**

When we land in DC the sky is a damp, misty gray and a light sleet is pelting the small plane. Ziva shivers next to me and I feel like we should have known that November in DC was going to be radically different than November in Tel Aviv, but neither of us thought to grab a jacket on our way out. So, when they lower the steps, we throw our backpacks over our shoulders and lean into each other to gather what little warmth we can. It can't be too far into the evening but the sky is getting dark and the weather is getting angrier with each passing minute – not exactly the most picturesque homecoming we could have wound up with, but at this point we're willing to take whatever we can get. If home involves bad weather, so be it. It's home and I'd be kissing the pavement if I didn't think my lips would freeze to it.

We're reaching for our bags and planning to run into the building when we notice that something is blocking our way. We stop, withstanding the fierce wind to take a closer look at the obstacle in the distance. Not some_thing_ – some_one_. It's hard to miss the shock of silver hair, even in the quickly darkening weather. He just stands there, solid and unmoving, waiting to close the distance separating us. After almost a year of miles and ocean between us, being only feet away is disorienting. It feels like there should be bad guys popping out of the shadows with guns and chains to keep us apart, but there are no bushes around for them to hide in. Absolutely nothing is standing in our way now, for a change. Still, I'm finding it difficult to put one foot in front of another. Shouldn't I be running and screaming with joy?

Ziva takes the first step forward, still holding my hand and dragging me along with her. I'm grateful for that – I may not have moved otherwise. I must be going into shock. She marches onward, purposeful with her long strides, until we're close enough to see the whites of his eyes. It's only then that she lets go of my hand so she can throw her backpack to the ground and wrap her arms around Gibbs' neck with more gusto than I've seen her display in a long time. Gibbs doesn't hesitate for even a second, holding her in a fierce embrace that seems to last forever. When Ziva steps away, her eyes are red and if it hadn't been sleeting I'm sure we could've seen tears there. Gibbs looks emotional, too, but only the Gibbs version of emotion – a partially raised eyebrow, lips unsmiling, but with a trace of affection in his eyes. It's noticing the few extra lines around those eyes that makes me forget all about shaking hands and go right in for the hug. It's brief, but it's there.

Gibbs missed me. Missed _us_.

"Martin?" he asks and Ziva answers.

"Fine," she says. "Back to Paris, to be with his family."

"Well," I add, "He did get shot, but he seems okay with that part."

"What about you two?" he asks. "You okay?"

"Better, now that we're home," I reply truthfully, sighing. "But now that you mention it, it's getting pretty cold out here."

The man nods down at our joined hands, catching the shine of the gold on Ziva's finger. To his credit, he doesn't seem surprised. "That permanent?"

I nod. "Yep."

"Yes," Ziva reiterates for good measure.

"Alright, then. Car's this way."

Ziva raises her eyebrow at me but I break out into a huge smile. As far as Gibbs' blessings go, that's probably the best we're going to get.

* * *

The first thing we come back to is tears. Good tears – happy ones – but still. We're ready for them. Abby's mascara and eyeliner have melted and started to run, making her eyes even more read than they already are. When we come around the corner, she seems to be frozen in place. It's not until Ziva opens her mouth to talk that a desperate gasp escapes her lips and she bounds toward us, almost tripping over her clunky platform boots as they catch on the carpet. She throws her arms around our necks and sobs, breaking my heart a little. I don't think it occurred to me before now just how much our disappearance had to have hurt her.

"Shh, Abs," I say gently. "It's alright. We're back."

She cries louder, her body shaking.

"We received all of your letters," Ziva says quietly, patting her back. "We must have read them all a thousand times each. When we got sad or homesick or scared, all we had to do was pick up those letters and it felt like we were home again."

"Yeah, Abs, and we read all of McGee's books," I say, pulling her left pigtail a little. "I even submitted some anonymous book reviews to some of the magazines, just to say how bad it was."

At this McGee glared from his place on this desk and Abby finally, miraculously giggled at the small joke.

"We missed you so much, Abby," Ziva said and looked up to meet McGee's eyes, just above Abby's shoulder. He nodded back. "We missed all of you more than we could ever say."

"Us too," she replies. "We missed you too."

After nearly strangling us, Abby relinquishes her hold on us and McGee steps up for his moment with the prodigal agents. Ziva hugs him first, giving him a quick peck on the cheek and making him blush. Next is my turn and for old time's sake if nothing else, I clutch his shoulders and shake him.

"Good to see you, buddy," I say and pull him in for a bear hug that pulls him off his feet and makes him get that whiny tone I've missed so much in his voice.

"Tony, come on," he says and I let him down. I'm so happy to be here, ecstatic to be home, that I don't care that I've managed to annoy him within 2 minutes of walking in the door. All that matters is that I'm here to annoy him at all. For a little while, it didn't look like I was even going to get that.

"It's good to see you, too, Tony."

"So," Abby says through receding tears, "How was Paris?"

"Memorable," Ziva says, sneaking a glance at me and giving me a coy grin that gets my blood moving a little faster than it was a minute ago. I know what she's going to do before she does it, but watching Abby's reaction to Ziva holding out her left hand is worth it. At the first twinkle of the diamond, Abby squeals loud enough for the rest of us to wince painfully. She grabs Ziva's hand and yanks it forward, bringing Ziva stumbling forward.

"Is this what I think it is?"

"It is," Zee confirms. "Nothing is official yet, not with these identities, but it will be. Of course we want you all to be there, whenever the date happens to be."

"Duh! Oh my gosh, look at this! Tony picked this out?" Abby asks, shocked, and Ziva nods.

"He did," she says, looking over at me and smiling. "Great taste, no?"

"Obviously," I reply smugly. "I picked you."

Abby sniffles. "Aww!"

"Congrats, man," McGee says, smiling brightly. "Really. Not to say I told you so and I know you won't believe me, but I had actually been thinking of a secret wedding for Tommy and Lisa for the next book."

"Don't even think about it, Magoo," I say but smile anyway. I really don't believe him at all, but I know he'll write about it anyway.

"You haven't picked a date yet?" Abby asks, still marveling over the ring.

"No. I have not had time to discuss it."

"We'll work it out," she says excitedly. "I've got people all over the city who have their own people. Venue, food, dresses, music… this will be the wedding of the decade."

"Oh," Ziva says tentatively and I can already feel my wallet aching.

Sensing my sudden discomfort, Ziva grabs my hand and pulls me closer. Surprisingly, it's just as easy to be a couple – to be _us _– here as it was in Paris. I don't know about my other half, but that's a relief to me. Looking down at her now, with Abby fussing over her and already planning our wedding, the light in her eyes seems totally alive and perfectly happy. For all the chaos, for all the danger and all the waiting and wanting it's almost exhausting to consider that for the first time in possible ever, we're exactly where we belong. Has this ever happened before? If it hasn't, we were still going to make it a habit. I squeeze her hand lovingly.

"Hey," McGee suddenly says, "Where did Gibbs go?"

* * *

Watching from the staircase, Gibbs pursed his lips to suppress what would have been a wide smile. It had been a long time since he'd smiled so easily, and he secretly relished the fact that he now had reason to do so. He watched in silence as Abby cried and his team, the one he's had dominion over for all these years, was reunited for what would hopefully be the final time. He was getting older, wearier, and he couldn't take much more of the anxiety of having everyone spread out. Not long from now, he would have to give the team up entirely. Until that day, though, they were his and they were whole. That mattered.

"Gibbs," someone said behind him and he turned to face the Director, his mouth in its typical grim line. For a moment he considered being on alert but Vance's expression gave away only that nothing was an emergency. "The Deputy Director of Mossad is on the line for you. MTAC, now."

Gibbs nodded, following him up the stairs. He'd been appraised of Eli David's funeral days ago and wasn't aware that they had appointed his successor so quickly. He had heard, however, that Ziva refused the position. It had caused internal conflict within him – pride that they'd thought highly enough of her to offer her just an important office, but relief that she'd declined. He knew, though, as soon as he saw her that she would be with NCIS for a long time to come. The look on her face said it all.

When he walked into MTAC the screen was already up and running, the picture uncharacteristically clear. Perhaps it was because the other side of the camera was situated comfortably in an office rather than on a submarine or a desert warzone. The face blown up to hundreds of times its normal size in front of him was of a woman much younger than her predecessor, with chin-length dark hair. A wry grin twisted her features and she raised her chin in acknowledgement.

"Agent Gibbs. It's a pleasure to see you again."

He smiled. "The pleasure's mine. I suppose it's not Officer Reut anymore, is it?"

"No, it is not," she replied. "I am now Deputy Director Reut. But you may always call me Liraz, first and foremost."

"DiNozzo and David are home safely," he said, abruptly changing the subject. "I owe you a lot for that."

"You have no debt with me, Agent Gibbs. My only wish for the future of our agencies is a dedicated, honest partnership. If you communicate with me, I will communicate with you. No cloak and dagger necessary."

He grinned, imagining bumping heads with the Israeli in the future.

"Oh, I think this could the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

She nodded her head.

"Likewise."

**THE END**


End file.
